Sending Messages
by Witchy Willow 2.0
Summary: Monroe gets used as a message board once more. Except this time Nick isn't going to take things lightly.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't live in Oregon but I can research. So if I'm a bit off – well I tried. The same goes for vegan recipes and generally foodie knowledge. While I do adore a good meal and a quality restaurant, what I make in my kitchen doesn't even come close. 30 minutes or less or forget about it.

And allow me to celebrate the first simultaneous posting between and A03! Getting on board with A03 pushed my projected date a bit (and a small case of the family _way_ to freakin' early), but hey it is worth it.

If you have a spare moment, please review. I love hearing from you all. Also, if some grammatical or spelling error is offending you please let me know. More often than not, I will correct it and save your poor affronted eyes. Plus it will bother me know that it is there.

Lastly, good Lord, is this is a long one! It just took on a life of its own. So I broke it into a triptych.

Sending Messages

Part One

It had been trying.

The simple thought circled around and around in Monroe's head as he surveyed the last fall seasonal harvest at a local organic farmer's market. He was lucky that Portland had a wealth of markets. His favorite had been the Hillside market until he discovered who ran the market; an entire flock of Seelenguter. Talk about bad luck. The market was only minutes away and ideally located near his home, but _Seelenguter_… ever since that whole "Reverend" Lance Calvin thing… the word brought with it an involuntary shudder. He'd always had a distaste for herd mentality and that church had it in spades. And who would have thought that a flock of really pissed off sheep could beat a wolf to death? It had to be the hooves.

Instead he was forced to cross the Ross Island Bridge for his groceries. It was a hassle and quite a pain in the ass to do, but it was Seelenguter free. And he had two choices. Either Moreland market, which was sadly not year round but had higher quality items, or People's market. Throw in a run or two to Whole Foods or Trader Joe's and his pantry was well stocked.

But this market shuffle wasn't what was trying. The selection was superb and offered everything a vegan could ask for. What was trying was selecting from his vegan choices something that Nick would eat. The Grimm would be willing to try most things Monroe cooked, but not always twice. It was like mapping out one of those Venn Diagrams. In this circle were all the foods Monroe could eat and in this circle were all the foods Nick would eat. The overlap wasn't pretty and damn small.

Monroe's experimentation with Moroccan stew had Nick picking at the ingredients and Monroe swore that the man had asked no less than five times why apricots were in a stew. Repeating, "it's in the recipe" wasn't an answer that Nick was willing to accept that night. Instead, Nick spent his time analyzing each and every item from his bowl; the bits of brown rice, lentils, and squash the only things that passed his careful scrutiny. If only Nick had been willing, the apricots were a delightfully sweet addition to the spiced stew. Monroe had even used fresh apricots instead of using dried ones rehydrated from the soup's vegetable stock just like the recipe called for.

Then came the summery cucumber and bell pepper quinoa fiasco. The bright clash of green, cubed cucumber against brilliantly red bell pepper strips on a bed of quinoa had looked lovely to Monroe. It was the epitome of a light summer meal fit for a warm August night. In fact, he'd thought it a success until Nick asked what it was.

"Quinoa, a grain-like food in the beet or spinach family. Just give it a whirl."

"Grain-like?"

"Un-huh."

"Kin-what now?"

It was then that Monroe saw his dinner heading toward imminent destruction. It made him want to pull at the curly, brown hair on his head and roll his eyes to the heavens. Any and every time Nick began questioning the food, Monroe knew he was in trouble. It was as if the detective was trying to interrogate the meal. He half expected the dark-haired detective to ask the bell pepper where it was on the night in question. The thought brought a quick smile to his lips. For as long as he's known Nick Burkhardt, there was one thing he never ceased to be – interesting.

It was interesting that a Grimm, a rampaging murderer of all things Wesen, would sit down over a beer to try to understand the Wesen world. That instead of beheading his quarry, as Grimms were supposed to do, he'd arrest them and send the errant Wesen through the penal system. That he'd trust one of the most notoriously vicious Wesen, a Blutbad, with all his secrets and even ask the wolf to guard his ailing Grimm aunt. Not many Grimms trusted the big bad wolf to protect them. They were enemies. They should be killing each other not trying to sort out dinner preferences.

But it all didn't matter because Nick was interesting from the moment the slender built man had tackled Monroe into his home. It was funny to consider. Nick was easily a head shorter than Monroe and carried less bulk as well. Nick was… compact. And certainly not short – oh no, short was a four letter word for Nick. He'd always argued that he was perfectly average for a male. Everyone else was weirdly tall in his life. Height notwithstanding, the detective had plenty of lean, toned muscle that was easily disguised and often overlooked. For all appearances, Nick didn't look like much, not that Monroe would ever say that to his face, and, on the day Nick barged into his home, that small frame didn't stop Monroe from being scared out of his wits. Grimms were the bogeyman of all Wesen tales and seeing one charge after you was akin to having Michael Meyers chase you in a Halloween flick.

And there was the added scary movie bonus when Nick popped out of the woods to chase down Monroe single-mindedly.

Despite it all, they formed a strange friendship. Nick wouldn't be the nightmarish Grimm that every Wesen feared and Monroe supplied information to Nick about the Wesen world. Nick had his Grimm books, voluminous tomes on Wesen behavior and effective ways to kill them, but Nick had seen two problems with them. They were highly unorganized and difficult to use when you were looking for something specific; and wasn't that the reason to have the books in the first place? They also lacked a significant amount of detail that Nick often used. No Grimm had ever conversed with Wesen before. Monroe's insight provided knowledge that Nick found more beneficial than anything in his books. So beneficial that Monroe had to believe that Nick's books weren't being cracked open at all.

This bizarre quid pro quo friendship quickly led to early morning coffees with croissants and late night dinners paired with wine or micro brewed beers to "discuss" Wesen behaviors. It was a starling change in Monroe's long standing loner routine. In his younger years, Monroe had run with the pack doing all manner of things that made Blutbaden the notorious Wesen they were. Things that Monroe wasn't necessarily keen to reminiscence about and the reason he chose the path of Wesen counter-culture as a Wieder. But the cost for such as decision made him an outsider even among friends. It left him isolated as the urge for a pack pulled strongly at his instincts that he eventually managed to mute through a strict regimen exercise, vegan dieting, and a mixture of herbs, vitamins, and minerals. This steady practice was Monroe's lifeline when the solitude of his life stung and woods across the street in Walter Park looked too welcoming. And yet, it was never enough. Just a Band-Aid for a much larger problem that and the underpinning reason for allowing Nick's intrusion into his life. Even if it was a bit reluctantly. Taking in the green Grimm under his wing and teaching him the ropes that Nick's family had failed to educate him on eased away the siren's call of his instincts and the lonely nights.

Not to speak ill of the dead.

Or a very scary, petite red-headed mother that could, in all reality, kill Monroe in a thousand different ways before imposing a beheading.

The time they spent together grew. What was once a quick five or fifteen minute info grab lengthened into an hour or two for dinner. And the conversation began to meander away from all things Wesen to talking about their day, Monroe's clocks, or Nick's high score on some phone app. It was what made Monroe work hard to sort out his dinner plans now that there was two. He wanted to prepare excellent dishes that had Nick coming back for more and giving the cook a compliment or three along the way. Monroe didn't doubt his cooking skills, but he had a hard time trying to blend Nick's absolutely pedestrian palate to his. After all, _Kraft_ macaroni and cheese was an acceptable food in Nick's book. As well as anything else that came in an easy, readymade box. Hamburger helper? Why not? Those full lips would pull into a mischievous smile and suggest that it could be hamburger-less helper.

A non-related Seelenguter shudder coursed through Monroe's body.

Heaven help him, he would get that junk food addicted cop to eat properly. With that thought, Monroe had delved into countless cookbooks, Food Network magazines, and vegan family-friendly websites for recipes that would suite Nick's tastes. It felt a bit belittling given his sophisticated palate, but Nick was worth it.

Well, having Nick stay for dinner was worth it.

Monroe's brief intrigue with Rosalee had been nice, but in the end they had too much in common. Go figure. The apothecary was brilliant, had a profoundly excellent ear for music, and enjoyed sharing her wealth of knowledge in herbal remedies. All things that should have drawn in Monroe completely. She even found his love of a baritone cuckoo clock endearing. But their shared interests couldn't make up for the lack of chemistry between them. It had been an awkward dinner when both parties had tried for something more romantic. The conversation turned clumsy and the coordinated moments they shared in the tea shop clashed into pathetic fumbling. Not ones to give up, the kiss finally rang home the fact that this would not work. It was a mere meeting of the lips as if greeting a dear relative or performing CPR. Any spark or desire was not only lacking but had apparently fled the country.

They had laugh afterwards picking the entire evening apart into utter hilarity.

Monroe remained friends with Rosalee. Trips to antique shops, concerts, and movie houses playing only the classics still filled their evenings jointly, but that was it. The pretty, brunette Fuchsbau had moved on to find a florist to date. She had remarked that it was nice to converse with another sole proprietor. Monroe had refrained from pointing out that he _did_ own his own clock making and repair business, but he figured that Rosalee meant a business with a storefront. A small distinction, but one nonetheless.

Around the same time Rosalee and Monroe parted as friends, Nick had to give up on Juliette. Their three year long relationship was no longer on solid ground. She had turned down his proposal claiming that he was hiding things from her, which Nick couldn't deny. He was. He had hid his Grimm activities from Juliette until it became too much and he told her. Monroe had warned Nick that it wasn't a good idea. Humans can't grasp the Wesen world. It was one of the few times Monroe had deeply wished he was wrong. Upon hearing Nick's explanation, Juliette could only frantically accuse Nick as crazy and in dire need of professional help. She told him that he was frightening her. Her voice rising into high panicked pitches before breaking into a weak tremble. Nick became desperate to prove his sanity. To show her that he could see regular people shift into fairytale creatures. He had come to Monroe asking him to shift into the wolf before Juliette's eyes, a request that left Monroe uneasy, but one that he performed for Nick nevertheless.

He could still see Juliette standing in his foyer holding herself against Nick's "crazy" revelation. Her wide eyes red and brimming with tears as she could only see the man she'd spent the last three years of her life with ranting and raving like a lunatic. Nick's oddly colored gray eyes pleading with Monroe as he begged Monroe to shift anxiously. The scent of Nick's fear and desperation was thick in the air. It was the thing that convinced Monroe to put on an act like some sort of trick pony just in time for a witch's spell to put the princess to sleep. Juliette collapsed in Monroe's living room and didn't reawaken until days later. When she magically woke up for some unknown reason, her memory of Nick was completely erased. She could remember Monroe, whom she only met briefly, and dear friends and family she'd known for years, but not Nick.

It tore him apart.

In the end, Nick had decided that it had been a "sign" of sorts that her memory of him would never return. It was strange in their home. He slept on the couch and showered only after she had left the room; often after she had left the second floor of their house. She felt bad every day that she couldn't remember him and pressured by Nick's constant, poorly disguised, expectation for her to spontaneously remember. The stress from unfamiliarity growing, ever increasing, until the strain from it had been too great. Nick had told her good-bye and moved out. It had been her house in the first place. Over a few too many beers at Monroe's place, Nick had bitterly remarked that he only got to live rent free for three years.

Nick had been lonely and quite pathetic. He got an apartment in the city, but it is sparsely furnished. It was little more than a couch, TV, and bed. No personal touches graced the walls nor were any pictures present. Every time Monroe saw the place it looked more and more like Nick was getting ready to move out than live in the place. The pantry had been a bad joke. The refrigerator held mostly liquor. But if that wasn't enough, Nick had decided to be moody with just this side of bitchy before moving on to clingy and anxious for company. It was then that Nick began spending his nights on Monroe's couch and having the majority of his meals prepared by Monroe. Mostly because Monroe was the only one who stomached his whiny self.

Even when he had "boys' night out" with his cop buddies, Nick showed up drunk on Monroe's doorstep.

He never went to the apartment.

It had been prolific enough that Monroe gave Nick a key and place to store his clothing; his toiletries soon crowded into the shared upstairs bathroom. That had been quite a feat for the Blutbad. Having anyone, let alone a Grimm, coming and going freely from his home had set off his instincts badly. It made his sleep fitful and his temperament testy, but Monroe had adapted once his mind had decided to pursue Nick. He had invested so much into the man that one evening the thought had just popped up.

He could recall it exactly. He had been prepping another Nick-friendly dinner thinking to himself that he was only a few steps shy of being a nervous newlywed hoping that her latest meal pleased her husband. It was ridiculous and silly and rang a little too true. Nick? He was a friend sure, but that was it. Wasn't it? His thoughts trailed to how much time they spent together and the many secrets they shared. He was, after all, the first to get in on the ground floor of Nick's Grimm operation. And when the proverbial shit hit the fan Nick always called for Monroe – no one else just Monroe. But that still was a friend thing not a… Monroe had needed wine at that moment. His thoughts were spinning wildly out of control and breaking his rule about imbibing while cooking was a small infraction.

His favorite chardonnay with crisp undertones of apple with just a hint of oak was cooling next to Nick's unfortunate fondness of cheap beer. The brand didn't matter as much as the cost. If an 18 or 30 pack of Coors, Bud or Miller was on sale Nick was happy to go with it. The stuff wasn't even fit for marinating and yet there it sat in his refrigerator. Just like the wealth of toiletries in his bathroom or the closet full of Nick-scent clothing that was spill out into his dresser for additional storage. That wasn't a friend thing. That was a girlfriend subtly hinting that "we are living together" _already_ before asking to move in. Except that this girl was a boy.

Although Nick was pretty enough.

Monroe shut the refrigerator door and slide down it to sit on the floor. He hadn't even taken a small sip of alcohol and his mind was buzzing as the world tipped ever so slightly. How could he have not seen it? Did Nick see it? So what would one date hurt? It would be vocalizing the unspoken reality they shared, but perhaps it was a good thing. Maybe… it wasn't exactly a bad idea. Monroe's nerves won out and he tested the thought on Rosalee.

She laughed for about a minute before asking in shock, "Wait, you mean you've _never_ thought about it before?" She then went on to explain how perfect they would be together.

With Rosalee's backing and his confidence somewhat bolstered, he asked Nick out. Nick had been surprised and only hesitant over Juliette's loss. It had been amusing seeing Nick unsure and lacking his usual self-confidence; endearing even. After a few dinners, both at Monroe's home and in the city, that first kiss between them held all the things that Monroe had missed with Rosalee. Nick and he didn't share the same wealth of interests but the spark with undeniable. That first touch of their lips, explorative and hesitant, before giving way to a more heated touch over and over again before one of them slipped an eager tongue into the mix. Monroe couldn't remember who started it only that he couldn't get enough. They had parted for a moment to catch the quickest of breaths before renewing their fervor. He remembered Nick crawling into his lap and fisting his hands into Monroe's curly brown hair; sealing their joined mouths together. He remembered running his hands over Nick's body feeling his taunt stomach before sliding them over to give Nick's firm backside a squeeze. His hips rising slightly to meet Nick's as the younger man on top ground their aching groins together.

He remembered the blasted call that interrupted them and the subsequent severe case of blue balls when Nick left. But he had dealt with it. After all, one of Nick's cop buddies, Sergeant Wu had been shot. Luckily in his vest, but he was in the hospital nonetheless.

Nick made up for the interruption the next night – actually he made up for it a couple of times that night.

He moved out of the apartment a few weeks later.

Monroe selected a few tomatoes and grinned remembering as the scene played out in his head. Yes, Nick was worth every aggravation that the man created. He was worth the experiment of vegan Sloppy Joes, potato skins with imitation bacon during Monday night football, and every other unsophisticated dish that seemed to please Nick's appetite. Tonight would no different. Monroe was working on increasing Nick's palate bit by bit with veggie ziti. However, prepackaged – _canned_ – marinara sauce will not do. Oh no. If Monroe was going to expand Nick's limited sense of taste, only homemade, made from scratch, marinara will do.

He'd gathered all the necessary ingredients and loaded them into the front trunk compartment of his Volkswagen eager to make the trek across the bridge. Nick was due to get off work around six so he had plenty of time to prepare even if bridge traffic was slow.

With his mind so fixed on this evening, he never noticed the ambush waiting him. The minute the trunk was secured, the blow to the back of his head was administered sparkling the world before his eyes in silver bursts before turning black.

-WW-

He didn't know how long he lay on graveled covered ground. His head throbbed along the base of his skull and a quick touch proved bleeding as well. His eyes blinked back the bright, white light of the midday sun. It was worse than the worse migraine he'd ever had. Stumbling to his feet revealed a bevy of additional bruises and cuts to his body as well as one fractured left hand. He knew it should hurt as his right inspected the fine bones along the back of his left hand and forced displaced bones into alignment. The impression bruise purpling there looked an awful lot like the heel of a large boot.

A pained wheeze escaped his chest as he straightened to stand and leaned against the driver's side door of the Volkswagen. He felt uncoordinated and one ear was ringing. It took a moment to remember exactly where he was and what he had been doing. The ringing abated as his mind slowly began to work once more.

Dinner.

He was getting ingredients for dinner.

Then what?

He remembered marinara.

He wanted to make marinara.

For Nick.

Nick!

The name held weight and slapped his dulled mind into sharp focus. He reached with his right to look for the car keys in his pant pocket; the warmed metal was still there. He went to check for his wallet with his left and winced in pain as the recently realigned bones balked at movement. He may be Blutbaden, but they would take some time before they were properly knitted together once more. Releasing the keys in his right hand and pulling it from the pocket, he checked for his wallet. Still in his back pocket. He opened it so see all his credit cards, identification, and money in their rightful places.

So it wasn't a robbery.

His body protested at the movement but he turned to look at the hood of the car. It lacked any bloody artwork that would have proved a Wesen or Reaper attack. In his world, you don't beat the ever-loving crap out of someone unless there was a message. And a bloody scythe painted across the hood of your car was a damn clear message.

But the pale yellow paint of his bug was unmarred showing only the run-off trails from this morning's light rain.

There was no message.

So what the hell?

A pudgy teenager with overly long blond hair jogged up to him puffing heavily for breath. It took far too long for Monroe to recognize him as the Moreland's market owner's son. What was his name?

Oh, right Travis.

"Mister Monroe, are you ok," the teen spoke in a high pitched volume that waivered as his voice broke thanks to puberty. His fat hand touched Monroe's arm to steady him against the vehicle when Monroe's body threatened to stumble sideways. "I saw it! Lucky for you Dad keeps a BB gun under the counter to scare off squirrels."

Monroe's mind pieced together what Travis just said, "Darrel shoots squirrels." The sentence tested his jaw which wasn't broken. It felt bruised and ached at the movement it took to speak. He felt the urge to pop his neck, but refrained.

Travis let out a nervous laugh, "Sort of, he mostly misses. He says on purpose."

Darrel Reed was a bulky, blond man. He shared the near white blond hair his son had except that his thick frame was built from hard labor instead of video games. He was shaped like those linebackers from the Seahawks game he and Nick had watched the other day but lacked their grace in movement. Darrel's steps were clumsy like a puppy still growing into its paws. "Monroe? Hey, Monroe!"

Monroe unfocused eyes came to for a moment as Darrel snapped his fingers together in front of Monroe's face. He didn't remember losing focus.

"You okay? I'll get Jillian to call the cops an' send an ambulance."

Darrel made a move to turn and leave, but Monroe didn't want that. Hospitals were a bad place especially for abnormally quick-healing Blutbadan. "N-no, s'okay." Crap his speech was taking a tumble. He forced the sentence through his mind, "I'm okay… um, uh, a little banged up, but okay."

Not perfect but close enough.

Darrel's brows knitted together and moved the BB gun in his hands so that one wide hand held the gun by the stalk. With his free hand he held up two fingers, "How many?"

Monroe wanted to giggle. Inappropriate as it was, he wanted to giggle. Why was it that people checked for a concussion by holding up two fingers? It was always two. Never three or four. "Two. Wha' happened?"

Darrel let out a heavy huff before running a quick visual check of Monroe's injuries. He turned to Travis, "Tell your mother ta hold off on the ambulance, but get the cops ou' here, quick-like." The boy left as quickly as his girth allowed before Darrel turned his attention back to Monroe. "Can't say for sure. Weird as all hell. These fellas came outta nowhere and gave you a good whack to the back of the head."

Monroe reached up again to touch the back of his skull feeling the telltale crusty sign of drying blood. The spot was tender to his touch. He paused for a moment holding his hand only a few scant inches from his head.

Hadn't he checked this already?

"Travis started shouting that you were being 'murdered' in the parking lot," Darrel smiled with a bit of good humor, "so I grabbed the BB gun and hoped they didn't know better. When I got out here they were beatin' the holy hell outta you growlin' like wild animals."

Damn, what kind of Wesen did this? For kicks?

"So I shot one. In the ass I think. Spooked them enough that they took off into the woods. I chased after them a bit and now here you are. They take anything?"

Monroe shook his head and regretted it instantly, "No."

"Weird, that's what it is. Looked young, maybe teenagers hyped up on drugs?"

Monroe didn't respond.

"Who would wanna beat you senseless?"

The phrase 'a lot of people' came to mind, but Darrel Reed was as human as human got. He was ignorant of the Wesen world and Monroe's place in it. "Did you… did they say anything?"

Darrel shook his head before amending, "Gibberish mostly an' growling." His startling pale blue eyes focused as he tried to recall what he saw, "And maybe 'grim' something. Think they might be one of those Satan groups? World's getting full o' weirdoes."

The inappropriate giggle bubbled in Monroe's chest again as Darrel erroneously connected the word grim to a cult. His attackers meant Grimm; with an extra 'm'. The thought of Nick and his expressive gray eyes set against jet black hair floated through Monroe's head. A few other favorite aspects filtered up to the surface of Monroe's thoughts. Those toned abs, that perfect dip in the small of his back, the little spot on his neck that Monroe loved to nuzzle against… Monroe repressed the goofy smile forming on his face. While the smile was born from his more colorful memories, to the outsider it looked like he may indeed have a concussion or at the very least some degree of head trauma. And that wouldn't do.

Forcing the information through his fractured mind was difficult. It was fuzzy but Darrel's uninformed memory was bringing pieces back. The message was incomplete but now received. He'd been on the receiving end of another warning to stay away or rather to stop helping Nick. It wasn't the first, it wasn't the second, and it wouldn't be the last time he'd get the crap kicked out of him by angry Wesen. Grimms weren't well received in the Wesen world and helping one was worse than taboo. Upsetting the status quo always came with a price.

The memory of Angelina's face popped into the forefront of his mind. Some crazy blonde woman had hired her to kill Monroe for the crime of helping a Grimm. Angelina had paid the price that day for saving him. He frowned. Maybe his head hurt worse than he thought. He had buried most of his memories of Angelina since they all carried with them the scent of blood, the taste of strong liquor, and longing ache of pack.

He suddenly _needed_ to be home. Across the river and safe within his home where he could nurse his wounds and chew on some Burdock root. He didn't want to be here anymore even with Darrel's concern for his well-being. His legs ached with a new sensation dulling the pain – he wanted to run away.

In the distance red and blue lights flashed indicating that the cops Jillian had called were arriving. Darrel left Monroe's side to walk over to the front of his store. With Darrel out of the way, Monroe pull his faculties together long enough to sniff the air and ground around his car. Schakalen. How could he miss it? The scent of blood, refuse, earth, and embalming fluid always indicated Schakalen. Now that he smelled it, Monroe felt overpowered by the scent. It was the embalming fluid smell. It prickled at his nose and Monroe forced out a deep breath through his nose trying to dispel the scent.

Damn Schakalen, ever since Egypt…

The lights were brighter and Darrel was flagging the cop cars over to his location. Monroe fished the keys out of his pants and swung the car door open. He quickly started the engine and drove off in hast before Darrel could turn in confusion at Monroe's departure.

Monroe's trip home was wonderfully uneventful. The traffic on the bridge was light and he managed to catch a number of green lights. It felt as if the universe was speeding him on his way home. When he was finally in his own driveway, he bolted out of the car eager to get inside before he remembered the groceries. Cursing it all, he yanked open the trunk, grabbed his canvas bags, and dashed inside.

Once inside, he locked the front door, set the groceries on a step in the entryway and watched outside the window. His body ached and he knew there was a lot to do before Nick came home with his questions, but he watched the empty street. The silent paved road and empty sidewalk were steady under Monroe's watchful eyes. He noted birds and a rather daring squirrel run across the road. Nothing else. No people. No Wesen to come springing out of the woods from Walton Park.

No, only his Grimm had done that.

The thought of Nick had Monroe's legs moving again. What was he going to do? Wait here until Nick got home? So Nick could see the dried blood and bruises and fret over Monroe like a mother hen.

Nothing had followed him and he really was safe. Safe in his home. He sniffed the air needing to find the comforts of home and verify that nothing was lurking nearby. The pungent scent of blood hung heavy in air undermining his efforts. He really needed to clean up which is exactly what he would do in just a few more minutes.

-WW-

Time equated to healing for Blutbaden and soon Monroe's stiffness began to fade away. His beating had been thankfully incomplete and many of the smaller cuts and bruises had nearly healed completely leaving behind only faint pink lines and sallow yellow coloring. His left hand still ached. He had discovered a lovely deep tissue bruise over his left hip during his shower. It was a starling shade of black, not even deep purple, against his hip and wouldn't heal any time soon. It came with the added bonus of giving Monroe a slight hitch in his step when he walked. His chest looked like a post-modern splatter painting with a sickening display of varying shades of bruise, so Monroe made doubly sure to wear a collared flannel shirt. His head and jaw still ached, but, despite the pain chewing on Burdock root caused, the root was alleviating a lot of pain with it.

Adding Burdock to his tea only sped along the medicinal effects on an empty stomach. Soon the numbing sensation was enough that the ziti was underway with homemade marinara on the stove.

Despite all Monroe's success in dinner and minor healing, six o'clock came far too quickly. The shell noodles still had another minute or so to go when Nick announced his arrival at the front door. Given the cheery quality to Nick's voice, Monroe was suddenly glad that he had to drive across the river to go grocery shopping. Nick's station must not have been notified of a guy getting the ever-loving crap kicked out of him outside of an organic market.

And then leaving the scene.

Monroe woefully took the root out of his mouth and set it aside so Nick wouldn't catch him gnawing on it. Nick was quite wary of the slender, black root ever since Monroe had forced him to chew it after a prolonged hand-to-hand fight with a Dickfellig. He reminded the Grimm several times that night that there was a reason their classification's name meant "thick skinned".

They made excellent boxers.

Nick entered the kitchen, "Wow, smells good."

The day had ultimately sucked but that one little comment lifted Monroe's spirits, "Of course, it's ziti." As if that explained everything.

Nick let out a small laugh before searching out a beer in the refrigerator. Monroe listened to the snap-hiss of the pop-top as Nick shuffled around in the background. Nick soon slipped quietly behind Monroe to give him a one armed hug when the larger man stiffened at the contact. The arm around his torso pressing down on too many damaged spots at once. Nick released him instantly and moved away perplexed.

Monroe wanted to slap himself. How could he ever forget how much Nick liked to touch?

He didn't want to turn away from the stove. He knew that once he did, all the work he had done to prevent Nick from knowing what happened would be moot. He was dating a _detective_ after all. Those pretty gray eyes would narrow letting just a hint of that steely Grimm sense show and Nick's slender frame would be immovable. The timer beeped announcing the need to drain the noodles and for once Monroe was considering letting them boil for too long.

Nick eyed Monroe's flannel covered back. He had set the beer down on the counter to square up his frame. Monroe was hiding something. The bearded man was peculiar but he never recoiled from Nick's touch. In fact, now that Nick thought about it, he hadn't seen Monroe's face since he arrived home. Only that green plaid pattern. Crossing his arms over his chest, "What me to help drain the pasta or do you want it mushy?"

Monroe looked at the boiling pot next to the deep red of the marinara and the sautéed vegetables in a pan nearby. It was time to mix and serve. "No."

"Monroe," the word came out with a bit of a whine.

"Okay, okay but you hafta, like, withhold comment for a bit."

Nick raised an eyebrow in doubt, "Okay." The word drawing out syllables it didn't possess.

Monroe moved to complete the meal knowing exactly what Nick was taking in for the first time. The cuts and bruises he hadn't been able to cover with clothing or facial hair. From the corner of his eye, he watched Nick's full lips part in shock before Nick bolted from the room. With no one to hear it, Monroe muttered to the pasta, "I guess that's withholding comment."

Seconds later, Nick returned to the kitchen carrying their amply supplied first aid kit and insisted that Monroe stop. He needed to be checked. How bad were his injuries? Monroe finished draining the noodles and placed them in the family style serving bowl while assuring Nick that he was fine. He'd already taken an inventory of his injuries once tonight.

The unmistakable sound of a fist meeting their counter top alerted Monroe, "You are not _fine_!" Nick voice teetered on the edge of rage with only his cop training keeping his voice controlled, "Would you forget dinner and let me check you?"

Monroe was tired. He had to drive across a bridge to get his groceries. He had the crap kicked out of him after buying said groceries. He'd spent a good portion of his afternoon nursing his pounding head and aching body into a somewhat passable state just to make dinner. And now that dinner was literally only a minute away Nick wanted to toss it out. His patience had been tested to its max. He walked past the stunned detective, grabbed the pot of marinara off the stove and completed his ziti.

The tossed mixture of vegetables, pasta, and homemade marinara was perfect. He finished off the pot by pouring an extra layer of sauce over the top to set off the deep black of the olives and compliment the bright orange and yellow of the bell peppers. Reaching up into the cabinet he added a sprinkling of parsley to finish the color palate.

"Oh for fuck's sake, _Monroe_! Would you…"

"No," the simple response formed around a warning growl carried more weight than Monroe originally intended. It made the rather irritated Grimm in his kitchen snap his mouth shut long enough to actually listen. "We're having dinner first then ask away," Monroe let out a small snort coupled with a nervous laugh. "You can ask during dinner but there will be no _forgetting_ it."

Nick's brief response carried a similar weight as the single word promised a long, stubborn evening, "Fine."

Monroe felt the twitch of nerves race through his system at the predatory sound in Nick's voice, but settled for winning the argument. The war would come later. He picked up the serving bowl decorated in gears and cuckoo birds, a cherished Christmas present from Rosalee last year, and carried it to the table. He could sense exactly what Nick was going to before he did it. His detective sat down with his arms crossed and waited until the food was served. The minute Monroe sat down the temporary truce that suspended their argument was over.

"What happened?"

"Eat," Nick made no move to uncross his arms and Monroe let out a heavy sigh. All his hard work for nothing. "I had a little... run-in… with a few unhappy locals. But I'm fine now, seriously."

Those gray eyes turned to steel, "What locals?"

"C'mon, Nick. You know I work hard on dinner, please?"

It was Nick's turn to sigh. He rolled his shoulders forcing the tension out of them, "Okay I give. It's just, I come home and find you all beat up and all I get is that you're 'fine'. You're not fine."

Monroe wanted to snap back that Nick was forgetting that he was Blutbaden and, with the exception of a few deeper bruises and cuts, he really was fine. Okay and his hand was still tender. But he wasn't human. "I get you, man, I do." He didn't want to dig into this but it would be faster to tell Nick and get it over with. "The quick version is that I sort of got jumped after buying groceries." Nick made a move forward in his chair and Monroe held out a hand as an indication to stop, "Sort of? Remember. It's really not that bad. I've been banged up worse. Now please."

Nick relented and took a quick bite to appease Monroe. In truth, he couldn't taste a thing with his mind fixated on what happened to Monroe. "It's good. Now what about these locals?"

Monroe beamed for a moment believing that he could add this to the list of things Nick liked, "How about the sauce?"

"It's good. Monroe, the locals?"

The same phrase. Monroe wrinkled his nose a bit before asking, "I added some finely chopped pieces of celery to give it a little crunch. What do you think?"

"It's great, really. Now how about the long version?"

"You wouldn't notice the difference if I'd use a can of Prego, would you?" Monroe shook his head in disgust.

"Probably not."

The Blutbad surrendered. He didn't want to worry Nick. Things like this would happen and Monroe dealt with it. Sure, it sucked that most Wesen didn't have the headspace for accepting a new status quo, but that made it all the more reason to continue on. As if nothing happened; nothing altered his day. However, he was realizing that he hadn't taken Nick's one-track mind into consideration. Just like the cases that crossed the detective's desk, Nick's mind wouldn't relent until the problem was solved and the bad guy was brought to justice. "Oh fine. The longer version is that my unfriendly locals were interrupted. Darrel, the owner of Moreland market, saw them and shot one in the ass with a BB – maybe. He doesn't know for sure since he apparently can't hit squirrels."

Nick put the fork he'd been toying with down in marked confusion, "Squirrels?"

"Yep."

"What?"

"Darrel shoots squirrels with his BB gun, but usually misses. He claims it is on purpose."

"What does this have to do with your attack?"

"His accuracy is questionable so I don't know if he shot one bad guy in the butt, duh."

Nick shook his head, "Did you get checked by an ambulance crew?" His tone hopeful.

"No way! I left before they arrived," the minute the words slipped out Monroe regretted it. Why did he just say that? Nick was already deep into mother hen territory.

"You _left_!"

"First off, you know I don't like hospitals. And I'm _never _a patient. I'll visit people, sure… you know, this is why I didn't want to tell you."

Nick shut his eyes trying to will away the headache growing in his head, "Let's run through this again. You're at Moreland when these guys attack you. In the store?"

Monroe wasn't going to let his meal go to waste and began to dig in in earnest. His sudden appetite overriding the ache in his jaw – or perhaps that was the Burdock root. In between bites, "Nope, parking lot. I had just put my groceries in the trunk when bam."

"Okay, so you're in the parking lot and these guys jump you. From behind? Did you get a look at them?"

"Nope, he whacked me one from behind. When I came to Darrel said there were a few of them."

"How many?"

"Don't know, don't particularly care."

Nick's jaw clamped down in frustration, "How about a police report? Or did you leave before that too."

"Yep."

Nick's eyes bugged in irritated shock. He'd interviewed countless witnesses and victims of crime. While many were understandably upset and often frustrated at their lack of memory recall, Nick had only encountered a few victims who didn't care. More often than not, they were usually dirty and involved in the crime itself. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to get the heck out of there. No sense in…"

"No, I meant why attack you?"

Monroe locked eyes with Nick and saw the guilt flooding the Grimm's mind. He wanted to lie, "I told you, man. A lot of folks out there who don't like the status quo messed with. And," Monroe gestured to the two of them, "we're really screwing with the status quo. Even more so now."

"Any clue on who?"

"Only that they're Schakalen," Monroe nose wrinkled in the memory of embalming fluid.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Part two of three. See I told you this was long!

Sending Messages

Part Two

The next morning Nick placed a call to the station near Moreland market. A quick conversation with the case detective informed him that Monroe had indeed left the scene of the crime and the detective was quite piqued about it. Nick managed to talk a copy of the report out of the detective on the promise that his "victim" would make a formal report.

He'd talk Monroe into a telephone interview later.

For now, he had a rough description of four attackers one of whom may or may not be shot in the ass with a BB pellet. They were all young men estimated to be in the age range of late teens to early twenties wearing black clothing. One of them was rather fat and had been holding a cell phone as if he was filming the attack. Nick rubbed his temples in irritation, with the exception of one fat guy with a cell phone the description left a lot to be desired. Especially the black clothing. It was always black clothing. Bad guys never went around jumping people in neon yellow.

"That bad?"

Hank's deep voice broke through Nick's thoughts and he turned to look at his partner standing beside him trying to read over his shoulder. "No, well… sort of," Nick paused taking a moment to look for the infamous Sergeant Wu. The slender Asian man was built like a bean stalk, but carried the stealth of a B-52 bomber. Or a ninja. Yeah, he was an information ninja with his uncanny and often nerve-wracking ability to slip in and out of their bull pen without the slightest disturbance. He waited for Hank to settle into his desk chair before leaning closer and speaking in a low tone, "Grimm stuff."

Hank's deep brown eyes widen and he nodded, "Anything I can do?"

A warm smile spread across Nick's lips. Ever since he brought Hank into this twisted world of living fairytales he often wondered when Hank would reach his limit. A human grasping an understanding of the Wesen world usually resulted in pain. The human was cast as crazy and the Wesen kept quiet playing along with the uninformed humans. Something that Hank had experienced himself with the notable difference that Hank had considered himself crazy. He'd told Nick about night-long vigils with a loaded shotgun and aiming at shifting shadows; at seeking professional help only to snap in the middle of a session and scare the therapist half to death. Nick had wanted to tell Hank then, but with Juliette's freak out fresh in his mind he was scared to live a repeat performance. It had ripped his heart in two to see Juliette look at him as if he was sociopathic stranger about to harm her. He couldn't bear it twice. He needed his partner.

But when Hank threated to quit believing that he was no longer fit for duty, Nick knew he had to try again. Unlike Juliette, Hank's paranoid mind was ready for the revelation. The fact that he almost shot his goddaughter when the Coyotl shifted before his eyes had helped Nick's story. Call it a lucky break.

While accepting this new truth was going well, Hank's emersion into the Wesen world wasn't as smooth. The black and white line that Hank and he usually walked in law enforcement had been significantly blurred into fuzzy gray. Nick had discovered long ago that not all rules could apply in both worlds. Rules often had to be broken and broken badly. Hank may be willing to overlook trespassing or using informants that there was no way of documenting, but bigger infractions were causing him to hesitate. Things like beating a suspect unconscious because if Nick didn't the Lowen would pop up when Nick turned his back to shred him into pieces. Hank was only just testing the waters of the Wesen world whereas Nick had been tossed into the deep end and was told to start swimming.

Nick had little doubt that he had found the limit of Hank's participation when Angelina, a felony fugitive, had returned to Portland with the job of killing Monroe. The wanted murderer was allowed to go unchecked simply because without her Nick had no information to work with. And Monroe's life was on the line. That night, when they waited in the woods hoping to catch the kingpin of the assassination attempt, Hank had stood on shaky ground. He was working outside of police purview with a known murderer and ended up hiding the bodies that resulted from their failed dragnet. The kingpin, some blonde, clearly wealthy woman, escaped, but her minions were dead, and Angelina had died in the fight as well. Hank's limit was met.

Nick didn't want to push Hank any further. He could tell that his partner had been antsy and highly uncomfortable with the entire situation from the get-go. In truth, and in hindsight, Nick knew he should have picked up Monroe from Hank's apartment and left Hank behind without ever introducing Angelina. Then the fallout from that night wouldn't have been so bad.

And the case now before Nick?

It was going to be just as bad. The moment he'd seen Monroe in the kitchen that night his mind had clicked to the only solution. The standard "catch-and-release" style wouldn't do. He knew that Wesen in Portland admired that he put his cop status before his Grimm status, but these attacks… there was no end in sight. Locking these guys up would only make room for someone new. It was feeling a lot like busting drug rings. Bring in one seller only to find two new ones divvying up his territory within the hour.

A statement – a message – needed to be sent. One that would make any would-be petty-thug think about the ramifications of their action before they touched Monroe. If they wanted throw down with Nick – fine. If they wanted to ambush innocents then that was going to be a different story.

Using the tender smile on his face to his advantage, Nick looked at Hank. The broad shouldered Black man watched Nick intently. Hank's concern for his partner was raw on his face. Nick only had to ask and Hank would deliver, "Naw, I've got it. So any word from ballistics on the Dronyk case?"

"Still backlogged. Those techs aren't making it easy for us to catch bad guys."

Nick gave off a small laugh before returning to his computer to check a few things.

The day went slowly with an unfortunately heavy dollop of paperwork. That made it easy to research Monroe's attackers without anyone questioning Nick's activities. It hadn't been easy but Nick stumbled upon a lucky break around lunch. A school yard fight over six years ago at a high school turned ugly when some boys exchanged blows while another boy filmed the event until a few gym teachers pulled them apart. Only two boys were suspended for fighting, Raymond Fry and Jaden Kwan, while the others escaped punishment until a video popped up on YouTube. The video of the fight was grainy and blurry at best, but incriminating enough. It also led to Jeremy Hellard when the YouTube account under "badbeastboy04" was traced.

The video was suspicious but it was the beating that Raymond Fry inflicted upon Jaden after their mutual suspension that flagged this case. Ray hunted Jaden down to finish what he started leaving the boy severely beaten with a heel impression on the back of his left hand. The photos from the police report looked an awful lot like Monroe's hand.

Raymond Fry also had a consistent background in battery that was escalating into aggravated battery. All of his victims' had lived through their attacks and all were left with a heel mark on their left hand.

A follow up call to the station's records clerk linked additional cases through a known associate of Fry's Lewis Saddler. Saddler apparently got off on watching Fry's attacks. He was always around when the beatings occurred but, due to the fact that he never touched the victims, prosecution was always dropped. Instead he was brought in on a range of petty crimes spanning the pathetic gambit of trespassing to peeping.

A search on YouTube proved that badbeastboy04 still had an active account that posted violent videos. Nick shook his head. The lead detective never followed up on the association with Hilliard and his penchant for filming. He'd bet good money that some of these "staged" attacks as the posting claimed were in fact Raymond Fry's rap sheet. The shoddy filming bounced around too much like the _Blair Witch Project _making the video an assault on Nick's sense of balance. Crappy camera work aside, it clearly showed snippets of Fry beating the crap out of a middle aged business man if the suit the victim was wearing could be trusted. A side by side review of Fry's victims showed that this man might be Harold White. A banker in new accounts at a Bank of America branch who refused to "give a little" when Fry pestered the man for a handout. A few more frames of nauseating video showed a wispy figure palming his crotch in the background who was most likely Saddler.

It also showed that, with the exception of a very human victim, the attacker and background individuals were in fact Schakalen. Nick grinned. The video may induce the need for vomiting but thanks to it he could see exactly what they were. Something a photograph could never convey but video held in evidence perfectly.

There wasn't a fourth.

In all the reports and known associate listings that Nick had compiled, there was never a fourth associate. Only Fry, Saddler and Hilliard. It was the only inconsistency with Monroe's attack. The filming, the boot heel impression, and the estimated ages of his attackers all fit Darrel Reed's description with the glaring exception of a fourth member. But Fry and Saddler were also the right Wesen type thanks to Monroe's nose. There was too much to ignore. Nick glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past five in the afternoon and close to the end of his shift.

"Hey, Hank. I'm going to follow up on a witness report."

Hank looked up at his partner a bit perplexed, "Something missing?"

"Just a small inconsistency."

Hank's brow furrowed before he realized what Nick was doing. He was going to work on that Grimm stuff he mentioned earlier and he was asking Hank to be his alibi. It was something that bothered the senior partner's conscious. He'd always believed in following the rules and he'd thought that his partner did too. After all, you had to in police work. But lately, something about Nick's casual disregard for rules from time to time was unsettling. Nick was also showing a tendency towards violence if the suspect was Wesen; even if the proof was weak. Hank feared that Nick hadn't told him the _whole_ truth about this Grimm business, "'K, need me to tag along."

"Naw, I got it."

Hank watched his partner leave feeling his stomach tie itself in knots. Every instinct that he had cultivated in his career was screaming for him to stop Nick – to follow Nick. For Hank to make sure that his partner wasn't crossing a line that couldn't be covered. Nimble fingers found an errant pen to twirl. Twisting the item around his fingers until a small sense of nervous energy was dispelled. His legs itched and he forced his eyes to leave the sight of the department's double doors to look at the computer screen before him.

Somehow Hank knew that this report wouldn't be finished today like he'd hoped.

Beyond those doors and down into the subbasement parking lot, Nick climbed in the cab of his tan Toyota Land Cruiser pulling up the last known address for Raymond Fry on the mapping app in his iPhone. He memorized the map before shutting the phone off.

A little cold calling wouldn't harm anyone.

Yet.

-WW-

Raymond Fry lived in an apartment complex that could generously be described as shady, but then again there was a lot to be desired from University Park. The Pinewood Park Apartment Complex was located off of Gilbert Ave with a less than a mile's distance to the rail line. Portland may be a city of bridges, but the railroad remained active. The loud sounding of a siren before the whoosh of a passing train felt far too close for comfort. The metal and rhythmic clacking of the train's wheels were distinct. Something that was only possible when you lived way too close to the railway. It made Nick miss the quiet suburbia of Hillsdale even if all those windy roads drove him crazy late at night.

The fact that the sun was low in sky as evening settled in only added to the ambiance. The one-story wood and brick buildings hovered close to condemned but its state of disrepair was well concealed by overgrown evergreens and mismatched bushes. The train's signal bell dulled and, for a moment, Nick considered the possibility of overgrown hedges as a sound barrier. There were no numbers left on the apartment doors leaving only faint sun stained afterimages of what the numbers had been. After a few wrong guesses from neighbors not all that eager to speak to police, Nick found Fry's apartment. It was the last apartment in the back row sharing only one wall with its neighbor on the right and deeply covered in foliage. Across the pathway, the backside of another neighbor's apartment held only one window and it was boarded up.

The complex was laid out like a convict's paradise. The pathways curved sharply under the tunnel-like cover of the sequoia trees above and became dead ends. It made the hairs on the back of Nick's neck raise in alarm. He could be easily trapped or led into a trap in a place like this. Ironically, for all the things he hated about this apartment complex, he was grateful as well. The general lack of interest the neighbors held for each other, the obscured pathways, and the roar of a passing train car all guaranteed that Nick would go unnoticed. A perfect marriage for the reason of his visit. He wasn't here on official police business. He was here as a Grimm. A Grimm who would protect Monroe at all costs and make his message known to the Wesen community _today_.

Monroe was off-limits.

Nick followed the procedure of knocking and announcing himself if only to have that thin veil of cover that this was for official duties. Usually, in moments like this, suspects ran since the word "police" was synonymous with "run like hell". Nick wasn't sure when the criminal element of the world got together to decide this, he only knew that it happened. It happened a lot. As if a memo was actually written and distributed. So it was downright shocking to see Fry answer the door with full bravado and a wicked grin splitting his lips. Nick mentally shrugged off the surprise thinking with a note of sarcasm that Fry hadn't gotten the memo.

"Hey Po-po, whadya want?"

Fry's dark brown eyes traveled up and down Nick's body in an unnerving manner. He was sizing up Nick and once again Nick wished he was taller. He wasn't short per se but average. And average meant that sometimes you had to beat down a guy before he realized you were a threat. Big with broad shoulders and a height surpassing six feet meant that no one fucked with you. Sadly, Nick was a far cry from that.

The man before him was certainly Raymond Fry. The police reports all read the same. Suspect was a white, slender built man approximately six feet to six feet three inches, and had short-cut light brown hair that was often dyed jet black. He had only a few distinguishing characteristics. There was a tribal tattoo wrapping around his right arm, but, if the man before him had it, Nick couldn't tell. Both of his arms were covered under a thin, black long-sleeved shirt. Fry caught Nick giving him an overview and flexed well-defined muscles noticeably expanding through the light fabric.

Raymond Fry may be slender but he was all muscle. Nick could already picture the MMA wannabe working out at a local Bally's harassing every pretty woman that passed him looking for the ellipticals.

Steeling himself for the fight, Nick held up the badge quickly before pocketing it, "Raymond Fry?"

Fry leaned against the door frame casually looking past Nick to check for his backup, "Yup, and you're all alone too." He made a disapproving sound by clucking his tongue before locking eyes with Nick, "Isn't that kinda dangerous?"

Nick watched Fry he woged in that instant ready to pounce. He flashed a lopsided grin at his success and watched Fry hesitate, "Schakal, right?"

The cocky man back peddled for a moment trying to disguise his shock. He growled, "Grimm."

An average looking man with ginger hair and the beginnings of a beer gut appeared in the background beyond the doorframe with his face curious about Fry's assertion. Nick mentally checked through Fry's known associates quickly finding the name: Lewis Saddler. It was hard to forget that strawberry color hair off-setting a face that Nick wished he could forget. His beady pale eyes were set too far apart against a thin hard line of a nose making Nick think about that art exhibit Monroe and Rosalee had dragged him to featuring Picasso influenced works. A heavy thump indicated that Hilliard might be here as well if history served correctly. Three against one weren't good odds, but there was a reason Nick had hefted his off-duty war bag around the apartment complex. The medieval weaponry might be needed.

Nick's easy smile remained, "Tell me Fry, do you know anythin' about an assault and battery on a Blutbad outside of a market?"

The door cracked under Fry's hand and Saddler's stunned curiosity shifted into a lewd sneer. He giggled in a wholly inappropriate way before shooting a comment to Fry, "Ooh, better watch out, Ray-Ray."

The comment had a confidence boosting effect on Fry. His tense frame loosened before he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet as that cocky grin returned anew. "Aw, friend of yours," Fry queried before chuckling, "oh wait, yeah, he was wasn't he? Too bad I couldn't finish it. Weak."

He spat the word out and Nick reigned in his temper to simple throttle Fry as the Schakal's face made a return appearance.

"Always thought Blutbaden were tougher. Guess bein' a Grimm's pet makes ya soft."

Fry leaned forward forcing Nick to step back. It was habit. Never let a suspect get too close. Maintain a safe distance in order to assess the situation and have time to react to sudden changes.

Saddler's high giggle resumed, "He's not too tough either." He moved to stand just behind Fry. The movement revealed a small hesitance in his step. Perhaps Darrel had shot one of them in the ass. His average build that displayed idle muscles that had only seen the inside of a gym so he could check out the ladies was shorter than Fry's forcing him to stand on his toes to look over Fry's outstretched hand holding the door open, "But kinda pretty for a nightmare." He turned to whisper into Fry's ear without taking his pale eyes off Nick, "Let's play with him."

The monotone voice announcing "Droid" sounded hidden behind the door alerted Nick. Hilliard had just switched on his cell probably so he could record them jumping a Grimm. Nick hated the limited field of vision and was suddenly aware of two things. One, his back was exposed and his heart rate sped up at the realization. Two, was that he had yet to account for the unknown fourth member of this pack. The increasing pulse rate triggered a jolt of adrenaline sending a heavy rate of blood through his neck that Nick could feel.

The snap of a dried and long dead twig replaced the ringing of a bell. Fry sprang forward intending to tackle Nick to the ground forcing Nick to sidestep into the graciously termed landscaping. His bag hitting the concrete with a heavy thud. The Schakal braced his fall with grace using his hands as a spring board to pop up in an instant. He spun around to back Nick into the side of the apartment and into Saddler's path when a glancing blow caught Nick. It came from left away from Saddler's location.

The fourth guy.

Nick stumbled a sideways step as his eye shut to prevent the free flow of blood from obscuring his vision. His ear rang on the left and in his right Lewis Saddler's sickening giggle could be heard. Heavy footsteps and a thick kneeling frame beside Saddler proclaimed Hilliard's entrance into the fray with his cell aimed on Nick. Nick wasn't going to play around with these guys. He'd already made the mistake of letting them circle him and letting them get in the first punch. His hand naturally found the butt of his 9mm semi-automatic. The cool touch of metal familiar and welcoming in his palm. He drew down on Fry and dared to hop across the threshold of the door's path to break the circle of predators.

With his back firmly to the trunk of a large pine tree, he ordered, "Raymond Fry, get down on the ground palms outstretched to either side. Do it now!"

The slick sound of releasing steel answered Nick's question about who the fourth member of this hunting party was. It was a sound that sent chills through Nick. A sound that was overly dramatic and wholly unnecessary. Something only a Reaper would do. A stone faced male concealed well by black clothing complete with hood glared at Nick hiding his frame behind Fry's body with his scythe drawn. Fry had his hands up. His body tense like a boxer in the ring. His moves were just as quick despite the clunky Vietnam-era military boots. He wanted to charge at Nick. His eyes darting quickly to search out an opening in Nick's defenses, but the Reaper knew better. Eyes shimmered under the hood as he looked down at Nick's bag lying in between the warring parties.

Nick knew better too. His gun was an empty threat. If he fired it, the shot might bring in unwanted attention unless a passing train concealed it, but that would take careful timing. It wasn't a viable option. He'd have to switch tactics. Telegraphing his plans, but maintaining control of his weapon, Nick holstered the gun. He needed to get to the bag lying between them and draw quickly before the Reaper and Fry got to him.

There wouldn't be much time. Only fractions of minutes – seconds.

The stand-off hung uneasy between all parties.

Nick didn't dare repeat his order. The Reaper and Fry watched Nick intently waiting for him to move just the tiniest bit. Even an unintentional jerk of the muscles would spring them into action. Hilliard sat cross-legged in the doorway filming the stare down like a bad 1950s spaghetti western. His quick panning from left to right certain to be nauseating to watch later. Saddler leaned casually in the doorway watching Nick with heated eyes. The bulge in his pants only noticeable due to the extreme attention it received from Saddler's right hand.

The urge to shiver in revulsion cross through Nick's thoughts before he bolted. He lunged forward grabbed the thick nylon handle of the bag and jerked it back to his location against a tree trunk. The Reaper's scythe fell forward, its tip scraping concrete when Nick failed to linger. Fry rushed Nick forcing Nick to utilize the bag as a weapon instead of the items inside. He felt a bit like a woman fending off a purse-snatcher. He blocked Fry's quick jabs and a wicked roundhouse kick before swinging the bag to clock Fry upside the head. The Schakal staggered towards the doorway using his friends as a brace as Nick drew his crossbow from the bag. The weapon already loaded with two bolts.

Nick took aim to take Fry out of the equation when he sensed the scythe coming. Ducking as the sharp blade cut a horizontal slash into the tree's trunk, Nick looked up and fired both bolts from the crossbow in quick succession. The habit to fire a controlled pairing well ingrained. The two metal rods stuck deep into the Reaper's throat side by side with only a hair's width between them. The Reaper slumped back and fell to the ground; his scythe dropped into the foliage and forgotten behind Nick.

Recovering from the blow, Fry raged at Nick with Saddler cheering him on. His formally controlled and calculated strikes were wild and uncoordinated and easy to block. Nick didn't have time to reload the crossbow. The bag was at Nick's feet. Grabbing a club weighed down with heavy metal, blunted spikes from the bag, Nick drove the head of the club hard into Fry's stomach knocking the wind out of him and driving him back across the door's path away from the Reaper and a weapon of convenience. The rampaging Schakal doubled over as Nick followed through with an efficient yet bloody blow to the head shattering the bone. Fry collapsed into immobile heap.

Two down.

Two to go.

Renewing his grip on the club, Nick turned to the onlookers startled at his own thoughts. Hilliard and Saddler hadn't done anything more than film and encourage the other Wesen. They hadn't made any moves towards Nick nor had they even lifted a finger to physically aid their friends. And yet they were a threat. Nick's instincts screamed for him to finish off these two in the same or similar matter as Fry. His right hand itched to strike hard with the club it possessed.

But they had only stood and cheered.

But they were witnesses. So far not a soul in the apartment complex had peeked outside in curiosity at the scuffle. No one had popped a head through the wooden slates of the neighbor's window. The distant cry of a whistle promised an oncoming train soon.

Saddler's burgeoning hard on either went lax or forgotten as his hands flew up in surrender, "H-hey now, Grimmy. I'm a lover not a fighter."

Hilliard continued to film. His thick fingers gripped the phone as his dark eyes fixed on the screen display. The deaths of an unknown Reaper and his friend not deterring his need to capture this fight on video.

Nick's warring states of mind added to his agitation as he considered the two for a moment. All his life he never thought he'd let the thoughts running thorough his head right now exist. Everything within his being told him that despite their lack of involvement these two were threats. They could tell others and regroup on a later date to avenge their lost friend. They could simply go to the police and even with Hank's alibi, assuming Hank would give Nick an alibi once he found out, there were too many unanswered questions.

He'd placed himself in quite the quandary.

To leave them here was perhaps the right thing, but opened Nick to an onslaught of problems and questions. To kill them both now would be to kill them in cold blood.

It would make him the nightmare that all Wesen feared.

The thing that Monroe was proud he wasn't.

The connection was inevitable. He'd gone after them to protect Monroe. To send a message that Monroe wasn't an outlet of violence for a frustrated and often frightened Wesen community. Something Nick was certain that the Blutbad would understand even after he argued that it wasn't necessary. Monroe understood the value in sending messages.

But only necessary messages. Like the Reapers at the water plant.

Two unarmed and scared Wesen didn't qualify.

Monroe wouldn't… So what to do now?

The weight of the club in his hand, which had been feather light only moments before, felt like it was pulling his shoulder from its socket. A dead, heavy weight that his arm couldn't bear to lift.

Hilliard panned the cell upwards as Nick walked towards Saddler. The creepy Schakal noticed the shift in mood as his too-wide, fearful eyes shrank back to normal; the pinpoint pupils of his muddy green eyes expanding in understanding. "So we good? We won't touch your boy anymore. It was all the Reaper's idea anyway."

Nick nodded mutely. His instincts told him to kill, but his mind had already decided he wouldn't… he couldn't act upon these two. He didn't doubt his decision to fend off and kill Fry and the Reaper. There was no lingering regret over their deaths. He was just now wishing he had done it in some other way. So that these two filling the doorway didn't exist or hadn't seen it.

The fight had concluded to a dull end and Hilliard lowered the cell. His fat fingers began to touch buttons over the smart phone's screen. The electronic clicking of buttons programmed to sound alerted Nick and his new found sense of calm rose into a nervous panic once more. The video! How could he forget? Far too fast for Hilliard, Nick yanked the phone from the pudgy Schakal to view the screen dropping the club with a hard crack against the concrete. It clattered to the ground with a wooden ring. The phone was opened to a YouTube app and Hilliard's half entered username, badbeas. Nick quickly flipped the phone over to dig out the SIM card before remembering that there wouldn't be one. He couldn't erase the data just like that on a smart phone. He stared at the screen blankly for a moment before closing the app and trying to recall what Wu had told him. The Sergeant was always tech savvy.

But usually he was trying to recover data not delete it.

His instincts slammed against the forefront of his mind as a fresh reminder urged to silence the two before him. He'd known that they were a threat and here it was. His decision to leave them alone wavered on a narrow precipice and threated to tip.

Seeing Nick's dumbfounded staring at his phone's screen, Hilliard had gotten up and tried to retrieve his cell from Nick's stunned hands. A thick palm closed in on Nick and the Grimm took a shuffle step back knocking against the club's handle on autopilot.

The fat Schakal puffed angrily, "Give it back."

Saddler fell back into the apartment with a hitched step sensing a problem with Nick's quiet demeanor. He removed himself from the doorway to become a sliver of a person in Nick's line of sight. Nick pulled the phone out of Hilliard's limited reach, "I can't do that." The words were tight and forced. From his earliest academy days, it was drilled into Nick that the best way, the only way, to calm a suspect down was to avoid the use of "no" words in situations like this. The detective within him corrected the statement to 'I'd like to do that Jeremy. If you turn around, slowly, with your hands up, I can give you your cell phone back.' His right hand itched to retrieve the fallen club.

"Give. It," Hilliard's voice rose edging towards shrill.

"Uh, Jer? We could gettcha a new one. Maybe that Galaxy III you saw on TV." Saddler's voice warbled, breaking into degrees of high and low simultaneously, as he feared the Grimm's reaction. "You liked that file touch thing. Let the Grimm have it."

Nick stared hard at Hilliard. Everything in him begged for the fat man to bring the fight back. It was the excuse Nick was desperately looking for. A reason to eliminate the threat and leave his conscious clean; a way to remain the person Monroe thought he was.

"No," Hilliard roared. "It's got all my data on it. Give it now." He stomped a heavy foot looking for all the world like a severely oversized two year old throwing a tantrum in a Toys R'Us.

The train's whistle cried high into the air.

Nick looked at the irate fat man in the doorway in disappointment. He was all noise and no action. It made his fury comical. For a moment Nick conjured up and overlaid the images of the enraged Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters with Hilliard. He wanted Hilliard to attack despite it all. Slipping the phone into his back pocket, only to hammer home the knowledge that Nick would not be giving up the phone anytime soon, Nick prodded one more time, "No."

He silently pleaded for Hilliard to force the issue.

A noisy snort came from Hilliard before he turned to stomp down the hallway like a petulant child. Nick felt the urge to do the same. Hilliard's defeated tirade broke the tension. The fight was done. Nick's quandary remained, but the disruption allowed Nick to realize how stiff and sore his muscles were as the adrenaline high wore off. His head throbbed from the blow earlier. Hilliard wouldn't attack. He was far too much a coward for something that brave or perhaps it was the bitter acknowledgement that Nick's only window for taking out Hilliard had slammed shut.

The train roared past.

Surrendering for the moment, he picked up the club and moved to gather up his spent weaponry. Tossing the heavy club into the open bag, Nick recollected the crossbow before moving away from the doorway to pull the bolts from the Reaper's throat. He looked at the bodies trying to figure out how to move them through the apartment complex without getting noticed. With the weapons tucked away in his bag securely, Nick moved the bodies out of the brush next to each other to prepare for relocating. He picked up the scythe in wonder. He supposed he could chuck it into the Willamette along with the cell phone. The water should render the cell phone useless and bury the scythe. He wasn't big on collecting trophies.

The unmistakable click of a hammer locking back to ready a handgun was loud in Nick's ears. It was a sound that made his heart skip a beat and sent a new jolt of adrenaline coursing through his system. It carried with it the knowledge that he had, in fact, fucked up. He dropped the scythe letting it fall back into the overgrown brush and turned slowly with his hands held up in a half-hearted show of surrender. Hilliard stood in the doorway with a .38 revolver aimed at Nick.

"Give it, _now_."

Nick was momentarily stunned. He hadn't thought that Hilliard had it in him. He had looked weak. He acted weak. And it had caused Nick to question his instincts. Instincts that were now playing a familiar chorus of _I told you so_ on repeat. He was forced to switch gears out of his Grimm methods and back into cop mode. He'd need to calm the suspect down in order to disarm him. "Okay, Jeremy. Put the gun down and I'll hand over the cell phone."

Hilliard's hand held steady as his dark eyes narrowed to focus the sights. He snorted again, "Un-uh, put it down on the ground."

A small part of Nick smiled. It was a common tactic to turn the suspect's orders against him and Hilliard's order was perfect. Nick went to reach behind him, right hand eager for the familiar feel of his 9mm, when Hilliard screamed, "Wait! Turn around and take it out."

Fat buggar was smarter than he looked. Nick's jaw locked in frustration as his plan to turn the tables was aborted. He could not carry out this order; it left him far too vulnerable. Nick wasn't going to put his back to Hilliard one more time, "I'm just reaching for your phone Jeremy. Let me get it for you."

Hilliard's arms dipped low for a moment before leveling the gun at Nick's chest.

Ginger hair bounced back into view as Saddler made a reappearance once he sensed that the threat was over. He looked at Hilliard in awe as he saw the Grimm pinned down by the barrel of a gun. "Oh, nice move Jer. Shoot 'im."

Nick wanted to retort. Saddler was clearly a fair-weather type.

"No," the sound from Hilliard was strained, "he could fall on the phone."

Saddler nodded in faux understanding. "Okay, okay. Have 'im toss his gun into the bushes that way we don't gotta worry about it anymore."

Hilliard's eyes widen. He liked that idea, "Do that."

Nick swore vengeance against every crime drama on television. He was pissed at them and he was pissed at himself. If only he hadn't had that moment of hesitance this wouldn't have happened. Hilliard and Saddler would be already dead and he would be on his way of disposing the evidence. "Okay, Jeremy," Nick tossed his service weapon next to the scythe. The bag of weapons was only a few steps away and he could get them fast. However, if Hilliard had any sort of aim that would put Nick a lot closer to his would-be shooter than he liked. And so far it looked like Hilliard could shoot. The revolver was held with two thick hands at eye level elbows slightly relaxed. His stance was solid and ready for the recoil. There was no way Hilliard hadn't fired it before. He didn't hold it sideways or with one hand or did any of the "cool" things they showed on TV.

Saddler grinned at the change of atmosphere as his right hand slid over his crotch again. Hilliard's sight didn't waver in the slightest, "Now put the phone down and step away." Nick nodded and moved again for the cell, "_Gently_!"

Carefully putting the phone down so that it didn't make a sound, Nick stood to move towards his left and into the brush towards the scythe, his service weapon and the bag of medieval weapons.

"No, the other way." Hilliard canted the revolver ever so carefully to Nick's right.

It made Nick grit his teeth but he complied. Hilliard wasn't leaving him a lot of options. He'd have to resort to ground grappling in order to take the gun from Hilliard when he went for the phone. Hopefully, Saddler would act as history dictated and remain motionless in the doorway as Nick took the revolver from Hilliard. He didn't seem like much of a fighter. Only a sniveling coward who hid behind others.

Once Nick was far enough for Hilliard's preference, "Lewis, fetch."

Saddler scoffed at the order, "Really now Je..."

"I said fetch."

The order was barked out and Nick could hardly believe that the Hilliard filming the previous fight existed. He had become a completely different person. Saddler shifted around Hilliard's bulk to retrieve the phone. It complicated things but Nick could still make this work.

Saddler bent over to pick up the phone and Nick darted. Hilliard fired a shot that zipped by too close for Nick's comfort. Grabbing Saddler's collar, Nick spun the man around as a human shield. He'd need the barrier in order to retrieve his weapons bag. Hilliard's cell phone still sat on the pavement.

Pulling Saddler down so that he was forced to bend backwards slightly to accommodate Nick's shorter height, "Put down the gun, Jeremy."

Hilliard didn't waver for an instant. He leveled the shot to Saddler's torso with the intent of getting the bullet to Nick.

"Fuck, Jer are you crazy?"

Nick pushed Saddler a little further away from him placing that small and yet important distance between their bodies. Hilliard pulled the hammer back again and Nick shoved Saddler into Hilliard. Nick sprinted for the weapons bag as the shot fired. He tried to grab something as Hilliard dropped Saddler's dead weight onto the concrete. Fear spiked in Nick's head as he realized that nothing in his bag would be faster than Hilliard's bullet. Not even if he could reload and fire the crossbow.

Diving into the mess of shrubbery, Nick searched in desperate panic for his service weapon. The sound of the hammer clicking back for the third time rang in his ears as his hand finally found the steel butt of the 9mm. Relief flooded through his body making his head light. He rolled onto his back to see Hilliard aiming. His pudgy face a haunting picture of dead eyes and determination.

Someone shot and for a moment neither knew who had.

Nick lay on his back in the spider-infested brush with his arms outstretched before him. His gun in his hands and his legs splayed open in an isosceles stance. Hilliard's body slumped and Nick realized for the first time that he had fired first.

He didn't even remember aiming.

Each intake of breath was constricted making each shortened gasp burn. His body was frozen in its place even as the bush's inhabitants crawled over Nick in protest at having their homes crushed. He couldn't stop staring at the empty space where Jeremy Hilliard had stood. The after image of the Schakal imbedded with startling clarity permanently in his mind. He'd have nightmares featuring Hilliard for months – nightmares about how badly he'd fucked up and how close he'd came.

He didn't know how long he'd laid there staring up into empty space, but finally the thoughts of a quick clean up and get-away took precedence as another train sounded in the distance. Gathering himself up and dusting away a few clingy spiders, he set to work.

-WW-

Nick returned home late that night. He finally pulled up to his home around eight. But the thought that it was his home put a smile on his face despite the rough evening.

After the initial clean up, Nick was left to ponder the best way to leave a message. The usual severed head came to mind but he wondered if it would be too much. There was a chance that the apartment's super or a curious neighbor might come by, and be completely human. It made the idea problematic. If they called the cops, CSU and forensic testing might find something Nick didn't intend to leave behind. The scene was a mess of footprints, blood spatter, and shell casings. He'd have to clean up a good portion of that before he left.

That's when it hit him; Jeremy Hellard's cell phone was perfect.

With his mind finally free to focus on the phone, Nick discovered that his capacity to recall Sergeant Wu's impromptu tutorial was restored. Well, in the sense that he remembered to look up 'how to erase data on a Verizon smart phone'. The Internet was damned helpful for moments like these.

He pulled the Land Cruiser around an alley walkway behind Raymond Fry's apartment. He didn't know how he missed it before. The brush leading to the alleyway wasn't overgrown and shown some signs of trimming. Apparently, Fry didn't always answer his door when the cops knocked. Pulling out a set of gloves from his trunk kit, he cleaned the phone of any prints before performing a hard reset. Once the phone was reset and blank of information, he opened the text app to type in a single word 'Grimm' before sending the text to Hilliard's phone. If anyone went looking for Hilliard, the carrier would be able to pull up all texting information despite the hard reset. Nick then turned back to the apartment and Hilliard's body. Placing the phone in his hand, he restored Hilliard's fingerprints and smudges over the phone's case and display screen. For the final piece of his message, he left the phone in a congealed pool of Fry's blood. Hilliard's revolver was left in the dirt where Hilliard had dropped it.

The sky was dark leaving Nick very little light to work with. It made the paths around the apartment difficult to maneuver since the residents here didn't utilize their porch lights and any overhead lighting didn't exist. He dragged the four bodies into the SUV's enclosed trunk bed lined with plastic sacks. Once loaded, Nick checked the scene for any evidence he may have left behind. The incident with the FBI and Marnassier, a Mauvais Dentes, had taught him to not be so hasty. That and there wasn't anyone he rushing to save. Only Monroe with a soon to be cold dinner.

He winced a little at the thought. The older man had probably left a dozen texts and messages but he couldn't turn on his phone to check.

A quick check for footprints showed so many it was astounding. They overlapped and covered each other so often that he doubted any clear tracks could be cast. It wasn't like he stepped in Fry's blood – he mentally thanked the god of circumstances he hadn't. Moreover, it was Portland. If it didn't rain tonight, he'd be shocked. A last minute survey of the bushes for any torn bits of clothing turned up nothing as Nick collected his spent shell casing. Once he was satisfied that the only damning evidence was a bit of blow back on his clothes from shooting Hilliard, and perhaps from Hilliard shooting Saddler, he left.

Deep into winding roads of Forest Park and far from US 30, Nick had found a rarely used dirt road that often flooded in the winter. In this place, that was cut off from tourists and forest service personnel, was where Nick hide those few incidents that couldn't be easily disguised. The Nuckelavee was easy. The horse had surprised Nick at his trailer which was conveniently near the Colombia. The three Schakalen were a bit more troublesome. As a just in case measure, they shouldn't be found for a long time. The three were left at Nick's Forest Park site near a tall canyon drop off point. It was likely that as the snow thaws and slides down the mountain peaks, the three of them may be found. If Nick was lucky it would be a few years and a lot of scavengers later. As an extra measure he took on the unsavory task of digging out the bullet lodged in Hilliard.

The Reaper was a different story. He was an unknown and Nick had taken him out using the crossbow. Nick took the Reaper out to a point along the Columbia not too far from where he dumped the Nuckelavee. He rolled the body into the river and tossed in the scythe after him. The body may float downstream, but the scythe was as good as gone. The bullet from Hilliard's corpse went in as well as an afterthought when Nick realized that one bullet in the depths of the Columbia would never be recovered. As for the Reaper, he should be hearing about a "floater" sometime tomorrow morning.

But that was all over now that he was home.

He was exhausted and dirty. Nick carried a change of clothing with him at all times even before discovering his Grimm heritage. It was a cop thing to do. Rarely, did anyone want to come home with something from a messy crime scene stick to them. Something that had actually happened to Nick in the past. It was before Juliette when he was in uniform and very, very green. A messy alleyway slaughter behind some cargo containers near the docks was called in and Nick was the first on scene. He'd assisted homicide detectives until late in the evening and trudged home only to discover a victim's eyelid on his work boots the next morning. That had been disturbing and embarrassing explaining to his Lieutenant how crime scene evidence was tracked home on accident. From it, he learned to carry a change of clothes. This was especially true now when his boyfriend could smell who he'd met all day long and if blood was involved.

His body ached and he longed for a hot shower. Performing another once over of his attire and securing the bag he'd stuffed the dirtied clothes in, he admitted to himself that he was prolonging the evitable. Nick turned his phone back on to discover a number of texts and missed calls. They all amounted to general checks for where Nick was to more worried and more recent calls of deep concern. It was the unfortunate price to pay when you were going to claim that you forgot to recharge the battery.

Monroe was going to be pissed.

He climbed out of the cab, tucking the phone away in time to see the front door swing open. Monroe's head of shaggy hair the only distinct thing about him as he was silhouetted by the light spilling from the front doorway. Nick shoved the clothes back into the cab. Monroe's normally deep, easy going voice hit a worried octave, "Where have you _been_? I've been calling and texting you for… I don't know _hours_."

Nick placed on an easy smile as he reached the front door and went inside, "I know I'm sorry. I had to take care of some things." He gave a light tug on the flannel collar of Monroe's shirt to pull the taller man down a bit to give a quick kiss. He gave Monroe his best "doe-eyed" look, as Monroe called it, since the Blutbad had no defense against it. "I didn't mean for it to take so long."

"Yeah… well," Monroe crossed his arms trying to be mad at Nick in the face of _those_ eyes, "you had me really worried. What if those guys went after you? Why didn't you pick up your phone?"

Nick hung up his coat to conceal a self-satisfied grin splitting his lips, "I don't think they'll be a problem. And, yeah, sorry again."

"Really?" Monroe was flabbergasted. "After last night… man, I'd thought you'd hunt them down."

Nick let out a nervous laugh, "With what? Your stellar eye-witness account?"

A deep frown pulled at Monroe lips, something wasn't right.

"I'm gonna grab a quick shower, K? It's got to bother you." Nick turned quickly not letting Monroe respond before jogging upstairs.

Monroe sniffed the air in confusion. Nick knew he was used to the smell of the station and that he had long ago accepted that Nick would come home smelling of strange people and places. He took in a testing whiff just as he would take a small sip of wine to see if the vintage was palatable. He could smell the precinct laced with undertones of burnt coffee and stale donuts alongside Hank's too strong cologne. It had too much alcohol in it. Monroe always thought that it doubled as an aftershave, but those had a weaker fragrance. The scent of dirt and pine needles was stronger as well as the lavender fabric softener Monroe used to washed their laundry.

He scented the air again missing the unknown and often repulsive scent of others.

Nick had changed clothes.

He took in another pull of air focusing his thoughts on what he already hadn't found. His eyes widened in alarm when he discovered why; blood. He could pick out the scent of blood and gunpowder and something else. Something that made him want to snort out the scent in revulsion.

Monroe looked up the stairs with his brown eyes locked in deep concern, "I'll reheat your dinner since you're so, you know, not downstairs." It held his usually snarky tone weakly. A muffled thanks responded over the sound of rushing water. Monroe frowned for a moment. Nick had always said that he loved that didn't have to lie to Monroe so why did it feel like Nick was lying to him now?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The last installment!

Sending Messages

Part Three

The next morning Monroe tried to find a grasp on a situation that was quickly spiraling out of control with an overdue clock repair. It was one from his personal collection that he had rescued from an untimely fate at a flea market. The wood casing was chipped and broken off in places but wasn't beyond his skill to splice in a new piece. By the time he was done, the clock would be good enough to sell.

His work desk buzzed with an incoming alert. The phone's display flashed a text message before going dark. Setting aside his work tools for the moment he checked the message.

'Are you free? Coffee?'

It was from Rosalee. The urge to perform a face palm coursed through him. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of her? All this time spent worrying about _whatever _was happening and she could have the answer. The apothecary was more in tune with the Wesen world simply because she wasn't exactly Wieder and she was dating her own kind. Humans may have had their own colorblind revolution starting in the 1960s, and truthfully still on going, but Wesen had a long ways to go. Then again, getting over a different color of skin was much easier than getting over a different species. Instincts and all that.

Still how could he have overlooked her as a resource? She was always happy to accompany him to the theater or have a mini concert featuring their favorite Austrian Zitherist at his house. She continued to assist Nick when he was dealing with an odd Zaubertrank or needed a remedy. Naturally, she would help him sort out the mess that was going on.

Whatever it was.

He opened the text app clicking on the green button with a speech bubble and replied, 'Any time. Usual?'

The smiley face with the number '10' buzzed on his screen. Monroe couldn't help but mimic the emoticon.

At one of his favorite coffee haunts, Citizen, the Reinigen girl from before stared at him with wide eyes. It was sort of disturbing. Every time she woged those eyes became big and black before shifting back to brown. It was beginning to get creepy. Pupils shouldn't work that way. Thankfully, the other attendant was all human and couldn't understand why her coworker was acting so strange. She apologized to Monroe and gently chided the Reinigen for freaking out on a customer.

Monroe was simply grateful that he could pay today. Even if he had forgotten to order a veggie scone to go with his Sumatra blend.

Rosalee was sitting at a corner table beside a window watching the scene unfold. She desperately wanted to laugh at Monroe's shock, but knew it wasn't right. Ever since word had gotten around to Rosalee she had debated calling Monroe. Her friend had every right to know what was running through the Wesen grapevine, but there was Nick to consider. It was possible that Monroe already knew and she was over stepping her boundaries. The three got along well and Rosalee was comfortable with both Nick and Monroe. She helped out with Nick's Grimm business when problems arose and she was looking forward to planning another double date since the last one went so well. The memory of Stephen's shocked face and subsequent urge to run had been hilarious; if not a bit mean. She knew she should have warned him that Nick was a Grimm – she had told him that Monroe was a Blutbad – but something in her wanted to see his reaction. Call it whimsy or a test for the florist, but Rosalee had her answer. Once the stunned Fuchbau got over his surprise, the four had a lovely dinner.

Even if Stephen had Nick confirmed multiple times that no one was going to die. It had Rosalee laughing into a napkin and Monroe trying to swallow his chuckle along with his wine every time the question surfaced. By the end of the evening Nick could predict it coming.

"So," Stephen would draw out the two letter word into long vowels, "no one's…"

"No," Nick cut off Stephen before the question could be asked as his voice had become tired from repeated confirmations.

"Because…"

"No. Quit asking," The small phrase a promise to break his promise if Stephan asked one for time. Stephen silenced himself while Nick turned to glare at Monroe and Rosalee like they were coconspirators against him this evening.

Afterwards, Rosalee had called Monroe to make sure Nick wasn't peeved. Monroe has assured her that despite the irritation of repetitive denials to murder their dinner party, Nick had a good time. That's when she confessed to Monroe that she hadn't warned Stephan about Nick. Monroe had laughed so hard that he was forced to sit down for fear of collapsing. Over the phone, Rosalee could hear Nick come into the room and ask about what happened. In the end, Rosalee had to tell Nick because the Blutbad was tearing up and his speech was disconnected due to gasping breaths.

Nick had felt better about the dinner after that and gave Rosalee the okay for another one sometime in the future.

Then this strange business popped up. She'd heard the rumor but didn't have any backstory. After spending so much time with the Grimm, she'd learned that backstory was not only very important, but that without it the events only looked brutal and cold. So Rosalee was hoping that, if Monroe knew, there was a damned good explanation or that, if he didn't, Monroe could acquire that explanation for her. And she could calm her nervous cliental.

So lacking the details, she hesitated.

Until the strangest visitor came to her shop; an Eisbiber named Bud. The portly beaver was an appliance repairman and one of the first Wesen to befriend Nick. It had taken some time and quite a few awkward encounters, but the beaver and the Grimm got along famously. The more Bud realized that he could trust Nick, and that Nick wasn't going to kill him or his family, the more the Eisbiber grew bolder in his contact with Nick. He still stammered. Rosalee had been witness only once to Bud's information dribble. If he hadn't been trying so hard the Fuchbau would have laughed herself silly. Still, seeing him in her shop, without any trace of Nick, was strange indeed. Bud may be Wesen but he was perfectly okay with using human remedies and drinking Lipton tea. When she turned at the sound of her overhead door bell jingling to greet her customer she wasn't expecting Bud. The beaver was twisting a baseball cap in his hands and looking around the shop like prey in need of an escape route. He walked in slowly as if he was trying to seek past Rosalee instead of talk to her. Rosalee had pasted on her shopkeepers smile and greeted the timid Wesen. She tried patiently wading through Bud's convoluted story before understanding why Nick always cut Bud to the quick. The man rambled. But he was so nice that you felt bad interrupting him.

Bud spoke and gestured wildly with his hands the baseball cap flapping at the movement, "Okay so the guys… they're my fellow lodge members. We don't hang out a lot but we're friends. We'll go fishing or maybe catch a game. But it's not like every weekend… well sometimes… we have for the past two weekends but that's…"

Rosalee was ready to strangle him. She prided herself on tolerance but this was tangent upon tangent upon tangent. "Um, Bud? What about the 'guys'?"

"Oh, right. Right. The guys were at the hardware store down on Stark and 11th…. that new double ratcheting screwdriver just came in. It really is amazing. Helpful too."

Rosalee gestured with her hand to get to the point.

"Okay, okay… Monroe showed up and they just booked it. Like a Grimm… well not a Grimm like Nick, but a Grimm…"

Rosalee huffed and finally understood where this was going. A few days ago a couple of her clients had asked about a Grimm execution. According to all the rumors, the Grimm killed a group of Schakalen and a Reaper over in University Park. The same group that had bragged to all their friends about kicking the crap out of the Grimm's boyfriend to show that stupid Wesen who's side he's supposed to be on. There was supposed a video of it as well posted on some internet site. Rumor had it that the same day, the Grimm showed up for revenge. Every one of Rosalee's clients had asked in hushed whispers fearing that their thoughts could be telepathically communicated to the Grimm; as if Nick was really the Grimm they thought he was.

Rosalee honestly didn't know what had happened. She knew about Monroe getting attacked. She had delivered a mixed herbal tea blend to Monroe the next morning that, while containing Burdock root, took out the root's acrid taste. An anti-inflammatory salve also made the trip with the excuse that if the big, bad Blutbad wouldn't use it Nick might need it in the future. Rosalee knew that once she left the tough guy act fell apart and he'd use it. Even with the accelerated healing rate of Blutbaden, only that salve would allow him to bounce back from some of those injuries as quickly as he did. The rest of the rumor was news to her.

However Bud's story hit an alarming note. If Wesen were going so far as to flee from Monroe's presence the rumor was spreading quickly and gory details that never occurred might be getting added in. Nick had worked hard to build a good reputation with the local Wesen. If all his hard work and good faith gestures were being undermined that was a problem. Another problem was the announcement of an unknown male found floating in the Columbia dead only two days after Monroe's beating. Rosalee was familiar with Nick's work on the Nuckelavee and the picture in the newspaper made her wonder. It was enough that Bud's story tipped the scale of her hesitation and she sought out Monroe. If anyone knew about Nick, it was Monroe.

"Howdy stranger."

Rosalee giggled. Monroe always made her laugh. It was the one thing that Stephen failed to give her. It made her wistful that things between her and Monroe hadn't clicked, "Good. How are you?"

Monroe sat down and looked out the window for a moment before tilting his head in quirky contemplation, "Um, well… good I suppose."

Her auburn brows knitted together. Monroe didn't know. She was worried about this, "You suppose? Something wrong?"

"Uh, you'd tell me if there was something strange going on, right?"

"Of course."

"So is there? 'Cause I've been getting wickedly weird vibes for over a week now."

Rosalee nodded and looked into her mild roast coffee with two pumps of vanilla – real vanilla none of that sugar free crap, "You don't know do you?"

Monroe scoffed, "Ah, no."

She nodded again trying to find a way to tell him. Nick should have to do this not her. She careful spun the coffee cup around on the table slowly. Why hadn't Nick talked to him about this? "Well you remember that 'message' you received a while back."

"Not like I could forget."

Just like a Band-Aid, she told herself as she steeled her voice for the blunt truth, "Yeah, they were bragging all over town that they whipped you good. Then, depending upon which rumor you pick, that day or the next the Grimm killed them all in an act of vengeance."

Monroe's jaw went slack. Nick couldn't… Nick wouldn't… would he?

"Also depending on which rumor you pick, a message was left for us – Wesen. In a pool of blood was a cell phone. The phone was blanked out and only had one text message that read 'Grimm'. Others say that the Grimm tortured them to death and hacked them into pieces so small that no one can find them." Rosalee watched the horror spread across Monroe's face at first then fall into the realm of disbelief, "Another version has everyone's heads sliced clean off and mailed off to the Reaper stronghold in Germany. Apparently, one of the Wesen killed was a Reaper." She paused for a moment to look into Monroe's eyes. Her own filled with sympathy for the man, "Monroe, no one's found the bodies expect for one." She pulled out the newspaper from several days ago. The rumors would be ridiculous if it wasn't for this one, "He was found floating in the Columbia."

Monroe took the newspaper. He skimmed over the article and looked at the picture making front page news in grainy color. His lips making a thin tight line.

"You know I'd think this is ridiculous except that…"

Monroe nodded and cut her off, "Except that it's Nick's classic cover up. The wound to the throat and lack of bullets also rings a bit too close to home." He'd cleaned up that crime scene. Once Nick was proficient enough with the crossbow, it became his preferred weapon of choice on Grimm huntings. When his gun was out of the question, Nick had a trusty crossbow. The Blutbad pushed away the coffee setting the cooling beverage to the far side of the table against the window. He twisted his hands together before running them through his hair. "But Nick… he-he wouldn't, right? I mean, not like that."

Rosalee shut her eyes for a moment. Of all the questions she was ready for that was the one question she really didn't want to answer. She cared for Nick and trusted him deeply. But she also trusted Nick's instincts. Grimms were well known for being fiercely protective of their loved ones. Her grandfather used to tell her stories about a Grimm he chased. She ran for miles holding in her entrails from her torn belly just to deliver her child to a safe place. Monroe's story about Nick's mother going on a lifelong hunt against the Dragon's Tongue for killing her friend and husband held a similar note. A hunt that was so important she didn't mind that it took her away from her own child. All of her anecdotal research showed that whatever a Grimm held dear was not to be trifled with. Whatever it was would be a targeted by Reapers and other Wesen trying to send a message to the Grimm, but it was a message with a price.

And if Nick came to collect…

Rosalee had seen firsthand how deeply in love Nick was with Monroe. It wasn't just the dinner dates or having Monroe as a sidekick for his Grimm work. It was how Nick happily endured the over decorated holidays and Monroe's detailed speeches about things she knew Nick wasn't interested in. She still thought it was sweet to how well Nick had managed to maintain interest throughout the entire monologue on the history of Lionel model trains and the new variations in today's market. That one had been hard for her and she usually shared Monroe's interests. It was all those little things like Nick picking up Monroe's favorite microbrew as a surprise, driving all the way to Salem with a chilled lunch bag when the local organic markets didn't have Morel mushrooms, spending hours digging through flea markets to 'save' some forgotten clock, or letting Monroe dig though his Grimm 'treasure trove' and explain the item's history complete with German phrases. All those things and more showed how important Monroe was. All those things made her worry that Nick might have done something to protect Monroe in the only way a Grimm knew how.

She looked back up at Monroe. He was hovering in between panic and outright denial. She couldn't blame him. Nick wasn't the fairytale monster under the bed, but he wasn't a saint either. It was a hard truth, but if she was going to get to the bottom of this then there was only one way. "Truthfully, yeah, I think he might."

Monroe's eyes bugged as he pushed himself from the table. How could Rosalee think that?

Rosalee quickly reached across the table grabbing a hold of Monroe's wrist to pull him back to her, "But it wouldn't be in cold blood. If Nick wanted to send a message, he would. You know that. You've helped him _do_ that."

Monroe nodded somberly. He didn't like it, but Rosalee was right. If Nick _did_ do that then there was a reason. There had to be. His own worry that Nick was hiding something fit perfectly into the timeline Rosalee had laid out before him. Quietly, so soft it was a little more than a murmur, "The next night after… Nick came home in a fresh change of clothes. It's been bugging me 'cause I could smell blood. It was… it was faint. But I thought, you know, that something happened at work." He snorted and shook his head before speaking clearly, "The morning after he washed a load of clothes. Nick… he… I don't let him near the washer unless I have to."

The Fuchbau frowned. It looked like rumor had it right. So the explanation was needed. "Before we… before anything is decided you should talk to Nick."

Monroe sat a little straighter and took in a deep cleansing breath, "Yeah, I guess I better."

"Then let me know, okay," she gave him a friendly squeeze on the wrist before releasing him and returning to her side of the table.

-WW-

The drive home wasn't even a footnote in Monroe's memory. He knew that he'd steered the compact bug into his driveway, but he couldn't recall a thing about the route. If there was traffic or an accident or, hell, if a ten foot tall clown walked by singing Monroe couldn't remember. Nothing. It was a gap of time that was filled with thoughts not road conditions.

He finally had the reason for all the odd behavior but he didn't know what to think. He was furious with Nick. How could Nick lie to him? All this time and Nick knew exactly what was going on. Probably. Maybe. No, he did. That night he came home in that change of clothes he'd said that the Wesen who attacked Monroe weren't a problem anymore. And the only way Nick could know that is if he hunted them down. How could Nick just whack some Wesen out of revenge – for an injury done to Monroe – and not tell him? And why even do it? Monroe was handling it just fine and it was only one crappy day. Big deal. He'd recovered just fine.

A note of worry dropped into his gut at the thought. How did he figure out who were the guys who did it? If the locals were fleeing from Monroe out of fear of riling Nick's displeasure what had Nick done? A deep seated fear that Monroe refused to listen to bubbled up. It questioned how _different_ of a Grimm Nick still was. Maybe mommy dearest had more of an influence than he'd like to believe.

Monroe shook his head. He'd never think that of Nick.

He trusted Nick. They'd been through far too much together to start down that dark road. And besides Nick would never flip on Monroe. Never. The memory of the Lowen games rushed forward in his mind. He was kidnapped, given raw meat from the last loser as a "treat", and tossed into a caged ring with a Wesen who'd lost all sense in civility. In fact, he was probably the guy who so graciously ended the treat's life. Monroe knew it was bad. His chosen path as Wieder was biting him square in the ass. He could fight – oh, he could fight. But it would cost him everything and he didn't know if he could find his way back to Wieder. Then Nick appeared offered to fight for him. In his place. Placing Nick's life in jeopardy when he really didn't have to.

How badass was that?

A small jolt traveled through Monroe that roused him. He'd always known that Nick was a predator; a bigger predator than even a Blutbad. Grimms were the things that frightened predators into behaving. They were the nightmares under Monroe's bed when he was little. They were the cautionary tales that every Wesen child knew. Humans might be frightened of monsters with fur, teeth, claws, and red, red eyes, but to a Wesen that was Grandma. And who was scared of their own grandma?

No, what frightened them was a Grimm. Those deathly phantasms that popped out of the woods to hack your head off.

And oddly enough Nick had done that to Monroe – just minus the beheading.

Nick was a different sort of Grimm, but a Grimm nevertheless – kind of a Grimm Lite. The days of fumbling in the dark, slow reaction times, and general klutziness faded away into something fierce, fast, and very Grimm. And even then, when Nick went into full Grimm mode it had never frightened Monroe. His family would tell him that Monroe had finally lost his mind completely. His grandparents would be turning over in their graves. No, seeing Nick like that had always, always thrilled him. Deep down, even when he and Nick were still playing the 'we're only friends' game, Nick turned him on. There was something about him that Monroe couldn't ignore. Something that allowed Nick's intrusion into his life and nearly howled when Monroe tackled Nick to roll to the forest floor under the guise of "practice". It was a little suicidal by all accounts, but real. It was the weird inclination that had him offering Nick a beer instead of trying to rip his head off that first day they met. Why he was enthralled at the sight of two dead Reapers knowing Nick was responsible and was subsequently a little too happy to behead them together. It was the reason he endured dog jokes and stuck by Nick's side when any sane Wesen would have booked it out of Portland.

It was the reason he was so confused.

Monroe had somehow meandered into his home. He glanced behind him at the front door locked and secure. His car keys hanging neat in their place. He didn't remember the route from the car to the house either. This was getting bad. He was spending too much time absorbed in his own head. Something needed to be done today. Monroe went to the back of the house to shift through the newspapers for recycling. He always kept them in a small plastic bin under the backdoor's eve. Since he had begun living with Nick, he'd found that holding onto the newspapers for a week or three was beneficial. Monroe never knew when Nick would get a case that dogged him into the wee hours of the night and some stray article or wanted ad, weeks old, held the epiphany Nick needed to close the case. Finding the newspaper he wanted he dusted it off and brought it inside. Nick would come home early today. His shift had started early so by three in the afternoon he should be arriving. Setting it on the table, Monroe was left was a gap of time to fill.

He could go back to the clock but his mind wasn't focused. He couldn't insult the clock no matter the state of its disrepair with less than his full attention. His pride as a craftsman demanded it. He drummed his fingers on the table thinking about the list of household chores he could do. Moving around the house the laundry was only a small pile since Monroe's last load a couple of days ago. He could pull together a load of whites, but colors weren't going to be large enough to justify a rinse cycle. The dishes had been done this morning. He'd dusted all his clocks and various knickknacks yesterday. The wood floor could stand for some waxing especially in the foyer. Nick had a tendency to shuffle to the stairwell when he came home late at night and that scuffed the floor.

Ugh.

And he was back to Nick.

He moved to the couch and thought about the television. After Nick had moved in, Monroe's modest television was tossed to the curb. The detective had remarked that it was still square shaped with a box. He had sarcastically explanation that TVs now were flat with wide rectangular screens and had a crystal clear picture in 1080p. Nick's 55" LCD soon stood in Monroe's living room taking up more space than any TV should. Monroe had asked if Nick had spent half his salary acquiring it. The dark-haired detective smiled and said 'After Christmas Sale' as if that meant something. The TV also came with speakers that were ugly and a satellite dish that had to be mounted to the house. Every year at Christmas, Monroe draped garland around it just to feel as if he got one up on the thing. The blue light that the receiver in the living room emitted still bothered Monroe in ways that a Grimm would never understand. Still despite all his complaints, Turner Classic Movies did look really good despite the fact that the wires from _The Birds _could be seen even more easily.

It ruined it a little.

He signed and scratched at his beard before deciding that nothing would distract him. Picking out a favorite album he set the record in the player before going upstairs to change. It was officially a double Pilates day.

By the time Nick's aging Land Cruiser parked at the curb, Monroe had run through his Pilates routine, ran that load of whites he scraped together, did a little yard work and took a shower that ran until the hot water was gone. It had cleared his head. He'd ask Nick straight up what happened and Nick ought to tell him. No beating around the bush. Now he had to make sure he didn't ambush the detective. He wanted to run to the door and ask away, but that would only put Nick on the defensive. In the time Monroe had spent dating a detective he'd learn a thing or two about interrogation. He forced himself to wait in the kitchen circling the butcher's block like some sort of weird carrion bird. He'd let Nick dig out his usual after work beer and then ambush him.

The front door opened and closed a bit too forcefully making it abundantly clear that Nick was home. Monroe feared for a moment that one day the stained glad wolf that adored his door would crack and crumble to the floor. He'd make Nick glue the thing back together.

"Hello, Monroe?"

Nick's voice carried throughout the house. Monroe had always figured that cops were taught to speak in that loud, commanding tone. "Yeah, in the kitchen," Monroe gave the butcher's clock one last circle before settling against the counter beside the sink.

"Oh, hey, there you are," Nick cheered. He gave a quick look around the kitchen before zeroing in on the refrigerator. Digging out his beer, "Whatcha doing?"

Monroe leaned against the counter and pushed himself away from it before leaning back against it. "Well, ah, nothing. Nothing much." The fluttering of butterflies chasing away his resolve.

Nick looked around the kitchen. There weren't any ingredients out for one of Monroe's overcomplicated dishes. So that nixed the idea of offering to help. The clock in the front room was in pieces, but it looked like someone had trimmed the hedges out front. The bush Nick had a small war with this morning when it tried to snag his pant leg was now beaten into submission. That and the leaves from the neighbor's tree weren't all over the lawn. A cold feeling passed over Nick making him set down the beer can and focus on Monroe. Perhaps, his message wasn't clear enough, "Did something happen today?"

Monroe had become fascinated with the kitchen floor, but his head shot up at the question. Did Nick find out? Rosalee was the only Wesen in town that would talk to Monroe honestly. Nick was boring holes into him with that stare. "Ah, well… you see…"

Nick moved over to Monroe closing in the small space between the counter and butcher's block. "Are you hurt?"

Monroe could hear the subtext. _Do I need to take care of someone else?_ But… Monroe shook his head and moved away from the worried detective placing them on opposite side of the block. Moving his hands in time with his thoughts, "Ok, so you know how I've been freaked about this…," his hands waved in circles in the air, "weirdness."

Nick's shoulders relaxed and he nodded in understanding. That easy smile that pulled at his full lower lip made itself known.

"So Rosalee told me – everything."

The smile dropped into a line and Nick switched into a calculated mode, "Oh?"

"C'mon Nick. If you went all Grimm on some guys why'd you hide it from me?"

They were circling the butcher's block. Monroe moved to grab the newspaper from the dining room as Nick moved back towards the beer. Tossing the paper onto the block, Monroe moved back to his spot against the counter. After taking a long swig from the can, Nick breathed a heavy sigh as gray eyes regarded the front page of the paper on display. The paper was folded so that the article on the Reaper he'd tossed into the Columbia was the first thing his eyes noticed. He wouldn't be allowed to deflect the question any longer, "Wasn't sure how you'd take it."

It was Monroe's turn to freak out. He could feel his eyes bugging and he wanted to move. He had wanted a straight up answer but this? This wasn't he expected at all. Nick's voice also sounded bored as if Monroe had just discovered that their vacation plans would be derailed by snow or heavy rain. He took in a calming breath to slow down his mind. First things first, "So, how about now," as the restless pacing back and forth over a small bit of kitchen resumed.

Finishing off the can, "I didn't hide it. I just… I just didn't want you involved. I was handling the prob…"

Monroe cut Nick off. Bracing himself on the block to lock eyes with Nick in a knowing show of domination, "I'm _involved_, Nick. No matter what happens, I'm involved." He could feel the shift in his eyes turn towards red.

Nick didn't even try to stare back instantly pacifying the wolf. He was doing the very thing that he knew he shouldn't. Looking down and away from Monroe to view the coffee maker, "You don't have to be."

"Oh and let you do everything by yourself? Brilliant idea, man. I remember how well you did before we teamed up. Do Mellifers ring a bell? Or how about the Ziegevolk?"

"Hey, you almost bought that guy a beer if I remember right." Nick turned his head up with a hint of a smile on his lips. "And besides there's Hank now."

Monroe knew what Nick was trying to pull. No way. He wasn't getting suckered into that… okay well it was adorable but still, "Oh, yeah the Hexenbiest magnet himself. And what if it's too much for Hank? Dude, I saw him after… after that, that _thing_ with my attempted assassination. No way."

Nick smiled, "Yeah, I caught that. The _thing_ with Ryan, our wannbe Grimm Intern, really hit it home. You've never doubted me."

Monroe couldn't help it. He'd lost for sure. That smile was infectious, "Don't make me start. So?"

"Well, all that weird crap was harmless, right?" Nick could see Monroe resolve to be angry wavering, but that didn't mean he would allow Nick to slip away and derail the conversation again. Not with that newspaper. Not with his apparently revealing conversation with Rosalee. "I mean, did you really care that the Bauerschweine at the post office wasn't mean to you?"

Monroe huffed out a breathy chuckle, "No, that was funny in retrospect. But the running of the Eisbibers wasn't."

"Yeah, that one worried me too. But Bud didn't come to me all tangent happy so I figured he had my back."

Monroe shook his head, "He went to Rosalee."

Nick looked up at Monroe in shock. Those pretty gray eyes wide as his smile faltered.

"Surprised her too, man. That's why she came to me."

"Oh," Nick looked down at his hands. Had he gone, perhaps, a little too far? "Is he… is he scared of me again?"

Monroe felt a wave of pity at how small Nick's voice sounded. The cool certainty from a few moments ago dying quickly, "No, well, I don't know. No one does. 'Cause someone won't tell us… I mean me."

Nick got the clue. He could move a conversation in any direction he liked and Monroe had been kind by allowing all of Nick's diversions. A little too kind by the looks of things. If Bud was scared all over again it meant that Nick's progress as a not-your-usual Grimm was slipping backwards. It was time, "I called the precinct that covers Moreland market and got the report. That and your admission that it was Schakalen narrowed it down. I found the guys and I sent a message." Nick's eyes narrowed as that steeled looked Monroe had only associated with Nick's Grimm flashed. "You aren't my personal message board."

Monroe felt that thrill race through his system. It was wrong. He shouldn't react like that, "What kind of message?"

A wicked smirk enlivened Nick's face, "Well, the usual wouldn't do, if that's what you mean."

"Yeah, man that's what I mean. The Wesen rumor mill has all sorts of 'messages'. So which one did you send?"

Nick shrugged, "Does it matter?"

Monroe couldn't believe what he was hearing. The news about Bud had shocked Nick – there was no doubt. But this was shocking to him. Nick was acting like a Grimm. Not the catch and release Grimm that Monroe loved, but a scary phantasm that made Monroe what to check his closets at night. "What the… yes, Nick, it matters. It matters lot. I've been freaking out since this morning when _Rosalee_ told me. She thought that you already told me. She couldn't believe that I didn't know. And what could I say?" He moved around the block to face Nick squarely, "That the guy I live with, the guy I share my bed with, kept me in the dark. You… you _knew_ and let me worry. This isn't… you said that liked knowing that you never had to lie to me."

Monroe knew he had wandered off his original thought. It was a jumbled mess and he didn't know how to straighten it out. He took a parting look at Nick before retreating into the living room. He needed to sit. His anxious mind had been winding up all day for this and now that it was here he was only more confused. Why was Nick so blasé about this? Why did he hide it if it wasn't a big deal?

Nick sat in the kitchen for a moment rehashing the past week. It was true that the more often Monroe reported in odd behavior the more Nick knew he should tell Monroe. But it was all harmless. He didn't see the urgency. That dickhead of a pig at the post office was finally doing right by Monroe. And so what if he got the last of something that some other Wesen wanted? The incident at the hardware store was troubling, but Bud never brought anything up. He assumed that Bud straightened out the misunderstanding with his fellow lodge members. But now? Had he come on too strong? There was no doubt that those Schakalen and the Reaper needed to be taken out. Maybe he shouldn't have left any message at all. But he didn't what it to be unknown that this was price for going after Monroe. Nick felt a small twinge of regret. If there was anyone in the world who knew how to wound Nick it was Monroe.

That last bit had cut deep.

He hadn't lied.

He'd deflected.

He let out a heavy sigh and moved into the living room to find Monroe. Today was his early shift. Usually that meant making dinner together and watching some movie made over 30 years ago. Sometimes they'd go out to check out some new foodie restaurant Monroe had heard about and wander the Pearl until they were tired. Other times they would order in and cuddle on the couch until the wine ran out and the food was cold. Instead, he was neck deep in an argument. One that he could have prevented. He saw the Blutbad siting in his 1970's yellow-brown chair with his arms crossed, "Monroe?"

Monroe didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on the coffee table as he sorted through his thoughts. Everything was all confused. He'd stormed out the kitchen and made into the living room just in time to have a moment of clarity. It sucked and it put the missing pieces into place, "Yeah?"

Nick selected a seat on the couch near the chair, "Look, you're right."

Monroe lifted his head to turn and look at Nick.

"I should've told you from the start, but I _really_ didn't want you involved. I hate the idea of…"

Monroe waved it off. He didn't want to go around this track again. He understood – now. All Nick had seen was Monroe hurt, the reason for it and how much he didn't like that. Monroe couldn't imagine what he would do if Wesen starting taking out messages on Nick. He knew the Blutbad he'd been and how easily he could regress back into that. Angelina had drawn it out of him with ease. The memory brought with it hazy memory of passing evergreens, a howl born from the thrill of the hunt, and the coppery taste of blood.

What wouldn't he do for a wounded Nick?

He huffed, "I get it. I really do. It's just… I don't know, man… there's like consequences for that stuff too. It's one thing if it's a Reaper, but regular Wesen… that's a whole different deal."

Nick felt a bit confused, "No, no it isn't. Reaper or not… I thought Rosalee told you everything? You had the paper with the photo of the Reaper."

Monroe's brows furrowed, "That was a Reaper? What happened to the Schakalen?"

There was a moment of mutual confusion where both parties just gawked at each other. There was an obvious breakdown in backstory.

"What is on that Wesen rumor mill?"

Monroe shook his head, "Obviously bad info, that's what."

Nick leaned forward and for a moment thought about reaching out to Monroe. Clasping his hands together so that he wouldn't touch, he took in deep breath. If Monroe wanted to know, then he had to know the how ordeal. "Let me back track a minute. I went to their place to take them out." Nick could feel Monroe bristling anew at the chosen starting point, "Monroe, there is no other option with these guys. I know you'd agree. The Reaper was leading them."

Nick was right. Monroe couldn't deny that when Reapers were involved death was the inevitable outcome. They didn't relent. It wasn't why Monroe had felt the urge to recoil at Nick's words. It was the fact that Nick had begun to add 'hunt them down and kill them' to his list of acceptable solutions for Wesen problems. He nodded is affirmation to show his toleration of the information.

"There were four of them. We fought – the guy who stomped your hand and the Reaper. When they were dead, I sort of panicked. The other two hadn't done a thing. One recorded the thing on a cell and the other just stood there." Nick intentionally omitted the fact that Saddler had gotten handsy with himself watching Nick fight. "I couldn't kill them. I could hear your disappointment."

Something warm blossomed in Monroe's chest. There was the Grimm he'd come to love. He hid a shy smile from Nick as he listened.

"So I just started gathering up my stuff and the bodies when guy with the cell phone recorder flipped. I fucked up. Big time. I wrote him off as a threat and then I turned around to see a gun pointed at me. We played a little hostage negotiation over his cell phone and I managed to use the last guy as a shield. Cell phone guy shot my shield and killed him. Not me. Then I got my gun back and shot him just before he could shoot me." Nick let out a heavy breath as if he was waiting for someone to share this part of the story with, "For a while, I… I wasn't sure if I shot first."

The slight tremble in Nick's voice made it all too real for Monroe. Nick had been close. Too damned close for Monroe's preference. "Got your gun back?"

Nick nodded hanging his head, "Yeah, he had me toss it in the bushes during our negotiations."

For a moment, they were silent. Monroe was taking all this in for the first time. It was frightening to think about it. It was infuriating to know that if he'd been there Nick wouldn't have had such a close call. It wouldn't have been four on one. Nick wouldn't have had that close call. Monroe would have killed that guy before the gun was ever aimed at Nick. And then Nick wouldn't be as shaken up right now. But he couldn't react yet. There was still the message to go. Nick could only wonder how Monroe would take it. Had he misjudged how far the Blutbad would let him "Grimm out"?

Nick knew he had to finish it, "I hid the Schakalen at my point. There's nothing to connect me back. I even got my bullet back. I tossed the Reaper into the Columbia along with the bullet and scythe. They've found him, obviously with the newspaper and all, but I know the guys on the case. A few more days and it'll get stored away as a cold case. They can't even ID him. Probably a foreigner. As for the message, I erased all the data on the cell phone. He'd recorded the whole fight. I had to delete it. I put his fingerprints back on it. I picked out a small blood pool and left it with a text message that read..."

Nick took in another breath to break up his monologue. It felt as if he'd been talking for a long time. But Monroe already knew what came next, "Grimm."

"Uh, yeah," Nick was startled by Monroe's interruption and yet just the tiniest bit thrilled that particular detail survived the rumor mill. "A different precinct is working the case, but I hear that we'll be getting it soon. Rumor has it that the investigation has dead ended. Thanks to all the Wesen cases I worked and Aunt Marie's attempted murderer bearing a scythe with the word 'Grimm', I'll probably get the referral."

"Trying to solve your own crime? Isn't that familiar."

Nick shrugged, "Not the greatest thing to come from… well this. But it sure makes it easy."

"In a not so good way," Monroe exhaled sharply, "Well, you sure know how to scare the crap of the Wesen community. Beheading not good anymore? Had to get all creative."

Nick wasn't sure how to read the snarky reply.

"Why the hell didn't you call me?"

Nick could only look at his clasped hands. His only concern from that night was getting tangled up in another investigation and Monroe's reaction. He'd destroyed the evidence. The floater was a lost cause and Spring was a long ways off. The only thing left hanging was Monroe and the guy had been all over the map tonight. Nick couldn't grasp a clear reading.

Fear niggled at his mind burrowing in deep. Had he fucked that up too? Did he misjudge everything? Maybe he should have been upfront with the wolf from the get-go. Speaking to his hands, "Because I knew you'd tell me that it wasn't necessary. That it wasn't a big deal an' that you were handling it. Damn it all, Monroe, I saw you in that kitchen. You were fucking limping and trying to convince me that everything was fine."

Oh, well, yeah there was that. Monroe's conscious chided him. "Uh, well, yeah."

"But it wasn't. And now it is."

The icy chill of Nick voice stirred that twisted sense of ecstasy in Monroe.

Nick leaned against the couch suddenly exhausted. He was the picture of Sunday morning on the couch with the Bears game blaring the background. He let out a breathy laugh to the ceiling, "We both fucked up, didn't we?"

Monroe leaned back as well in a more civilized version of Nick's couch potato slouch. "Yeah, man."

"So," the word drew out an extended syllable.

"Oh alright. I'm forgiving you for your treachery, but…" Nick sat up straight to listen. "No more, okay? If you gotta do something make sure I'm involved."

"I think I can manage that. 'Cause there may be a next time. I'm not thrilled about it, but, yeah."

"Yeah, I get you." What else could he say? He didn't like Nick prepping for this kind of thing but it was probably a Grimm reality. And he did understand Nick's motivation. It would just be better if he as there to manage it. Nick had a tendency towards overzealousness. He was also overprotective. "I just don't want you, you know, crossing a line that we take back."

Nick nodded in understanding. "Thanks, I… I know what you mean."

Monroe raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Those two guys. The ones who weren't bad until cell phone guy picked up a revolver? I felt it."

"And that's why you're a different sort of Grimm." Monroe stood to sit beside Nick sensing Nick's need for physical contact. He pulled the younger man to him into a one-armed hug. "Only you would worry. Think your mom would hesitate?"

Nick laughed and cuddled against the bearded man, "Oh, hell no. I could hear her telling me to finish them off."

Bouncing his line of sight to various clocks and accoutrements around his living room in a nervous gesture, "You know, she… she still freaks me out."

"I know."

"So you'll hunt down Schakalen and a Reaper, but you won't defend me from your mother."

Nick grinned, "Do you really want to get into Thanksgiving? Because last time _your_ mother called, you were still dancing around the issue of bringing a guest." Monroe opened his mouth to respond but was cut off, "And you called my mom a bitch. To her face."

"Okay, one, I didn't know who she was. And two, I'm still trying to figure out my relatives and you. We've killed dogs over who gets the best part of the roast," Monroe stopped Nick's inquiry as it formed, "and don't ask what kind. I'm just trying to sort out a way where claws and guns aren't involved the minute hello turns into Grimm."

"Fair enough." Nick let them fall into a companionable silence with nothing but the ticking of Monroe's clocks as background noise. He snuggled closer fitting himself into the space beneath Monroe's arm and the couch. He loved this. Nick was a tactile person and being held at arm's length drove him crazy. He waited a moment longer before asking, "Does this mean I need to talk to Rosalee?"

Monroe smiled a knowing smile. Nick could never be quiet or remain in a quiet room for very long. He was definitely a fan of noise. And he really had held out a whole three minutes. "No, I think it'll be better coming from me. Might want to talk to Bud though. Man, that guy is nervous."

He wanted to stay tucked into Monroe's side, but consequences and all that. Better to set the record straight. "Okay, I'll drive to Bud's and clear the air. And afterwards… dinner?"

"I should have never fed you. It's like you're a cat."

Nick flashed a lopsided grin that never failed to give him his way.

"Fine, but how about a night out? I want a weird free night out."

Nick was in the foyer shrugging his coat back on and getting ready to out to Bud's home. He called over his shoulder before slamming the door shut and rattling the poor stained glass wolf, "You know, I can't guarantee that."

Monroe sighed on his couch. Nick was trying but, what the hell. Having him in his life was far better than anything else.

Now to call Rosalee…


End file.
